From Corsica With Love
by Mireille Bouquet Fan
Summary: Mireille Bouquet's first solo assignment - the assassination of a Paris crime boss. However, there is much more at stake than her target's death, and her intervention could have serious consequences. Pre-series.
1. Chapter 1

Although this is not the story that I originally had in mind, the idea of a James Bond/_Noir_ crossover is one I've had for quite a while. This story is set a little over a year before episode 1 of _Noir._

_Noir_ is owned by Ryoe Tsukimura, Bee Train Entertainment and Victor Entertainment. The English language version, originally produced by A.D. Vision, is owned by FUNimation Entertainment.

James Bond and associated characters are owned by Danjaq, L.L.C. and Ian Fleming Publications, based on characters created by Ian Fleming. Rights to the James Bond film series are owned by Danjaq, L.L.C., United Artists Corporation, and Columbia Pictures. Rights to James Bond print media are owned by Ian Fleming publications.

All other trademarks and copyrights are the intellectual property of their respective owners.

* * *

From Corsica With Love

A James Bond and _Noir_ story

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

Although this wasn't new to her, Mireille Bouquet found she still hesitated before a kill. Her uncle, Claude Feyder, had taught her almost everything he knew about the art and science of killing, but she still only had a handful of kills to her name and wasn't particularly confident. At eighteen, although skilled and rapidly becoming proficient, she simply lacked experience.

For his part, Claude had been more confident in his niece's abilities; he felt that she could take her own assignments. She was mature beyond her years, methodical, cautious. She studied her targets carefully, watching for a routine that could be exploited, a weakness that could be targeted, as opposed to simply barging in, brandishing a weapon. In addition, she was working on disguising her French origins by learning to speak English with an American accent; although she was competent with English and easily understandable to a native speaker, her English was currently accented with an odd mix of metropolitan French and Corsican.

He had first taught her in lessons on weekends at their home in Paris, teaching her unarmed and armed close-quarter combat and marksmanship. Later, he took her with him on assignments where she could observe him in action, following him as he saw a job through.

In the end, she actually performed his assignments – he was the one following her, only stepping in when the situation could not be recovered by Mireille on her own.

And now, this was the first assignment Mireille had taken under her own name. She was ready, or so Claude said, to do so. However, she hesitated before taking on the assignment; she wanted to prove herself, but she didn't want to botch this assignment up. This job could easily influence her standing, how she was perceived as an assassin.

Claude had left Paris altogether some time ago, so he wouldn't be here this time. Not that he would have come with her had he been here – he would have considered it important that she do this all by herself. Mireille wondered if that was why he had left – to ensure that she did things on her own.

* * *

While she was still getting accustomed to her trade and the prospect of killing for a living, she decided early on that she would make it a point to only kill the 'bad guys' – people who had wronged or cheated others. Criminals who had evaded justice. With that in mind, some might have called her a vigilante, except vigilantes were not hired, nor were they paid for their work.

Claude had tried to teach her indifference – a job was a job, no matter who ordered it or who was to be killed. However, Mireille resolved that she didn't want others to know what she had felt these past eight years – helplessness at not being able to strike back at those who had taken from them. Justice – some might say vengeance – had been denied her. It would not be so with her targets.

And so it was, with today's hit.

Today's target was a man named Pierre Morgan, a local crime boss. He was working his way up through the criminal underworld, now commanding the loyalty of a few dozen men. He was wanted on several charges – drug trafficking, prostitution, extortion, murder.

The client was a rival crime boss who felt Morgan was encroaching on his turf. True, the hit was ordered out of rivalry and the killing would probably act to solidify his position, but doing away with Morgan was still a good thing.

Morgan tended to travel with a small retinue of subordinates and bodyguards. Of these, the most dangerous was his right-hand man, Christian Galle. While Galle helped oversee some of Morgan's business dealings, he apparently doubled as a hitman; Galle was reputedly Morgan's enforcer, the hand that struck out when Morgan so ordered. He was the prime suspect in the murders of several underworld figures, murders that were rumoured to have been ordered by Morgan.

* * *

One of the things Claude had done was introduce her to a network of contacts throughout Paris, and, when he took her, overseas. These people would prove to be good sources of information – even if it was just rumours spread by word-of-mouth. Before leaving, he left her with a list of names.

This network allowed Mireille to locate Morgan and predict his movements to an extent, which would aid in formulating her plans.

Morgan had a villa several kilometres in the countryside, outside Paris – a holiday home, it would seem. He would not be there anytime soon.

Within the city, he lived in a penthouse suite in an inner-city apartment building. From here, he oversaw his operations, although he would come down to his Paris nightclub when it took his fancy.

He would leave his apartment to go on business trips – meeting clients, making deals, trying to expand his reach, his influence. The important thing was, wherever Morgan went, Galle and some other henchmen would not be far away. She would have to account for their presence in whatever plans she made. Getting close would do her no good if she was intercepted by Morgan's henchmen first.

* * *

Mireille eventually decided to attack Morgan while he was out on one of his 'business' trips; she had decided attacking him at the nightclub or in his apartment was simply too risky.

Morgan was chauffeured around Paris in his black Mercedes-Benz sedan. It would be an easy matter to surreptitiously follow him and simply kill him when they stopped at their destination, but she would essentially be going blind into whatever building they went to. She needed to know where he would be going.

Her contacts told her that in three days' time, Morgan would be going to a warehouse in the south of Paris to hand over some goods to a client of his. The goods were rumoured to be weapons – apparently, Morgan was acting as a middleman and courier for some gun runners.

That, she decided, was her best shot. But first, there was something she needed to do.

* * *

Mireille slowly drove her Volkswagen Polo hatchback past the warehouse. It was one of several in an industrial estate south of the Paris CBD, and it had taken close to an hour for her to get here. She checked her watch: 5:22pm.

The warehouse appeared to be abandoned – there were no cars occupying the parking lot outside, and the windows appeared to be spotted with grime. However, the building had not yet fallen into decay; there was very little rust on any of the metal surfaces, and the windows, however dirty, were largely unbroken.

There were only a few cars parked in the street the warehouse was located on. She saw that the main gate in front of the warehouse was open.

Turning the corner, she parked the Polo by the side of the road. She disembarked, locked the Polo, and started walking towards the warehouse.

The warehouse was surrounded by a chain-link fence – easy enough to scale, but she entered through the open gate.

There were several ways into the building: large gates with roller doors, a series of fire exits along the wall, and a door to a reception area. The last was next to a large window, the glass marked with dirt and mould.

She entered the warehouse itself through the reception area – the door was unlocked. The reception lounge was abandoned, cleaned out, as was to be expected. Cobwebs occupied corners in the ceiling. The light grey paint on the walls was grimy. The lighting fixtures on the ceiling were dark, the fluorescent tubes removed.

The same went for the small offices branching off the short hall nearby – they too were empty, save for dust and cobwebs.

Finally, she came to the main storage area for the warehouse.

Predictably enough, it was a large, wide area. The walls were punctuated by the large gates with metal roller doors. The floor was occupied by several large storage racks lined up in rows – the racks had not been moved. Some of them bore spots of rust beneath peeling paint.

In addition, there were also some abandoned vehicles; two cars and a van. Walking over to the vehicles, Mireille saw that all three bore cobwebs. The tyres were deflated.

Metal staircases and ladders led to catwalks that lined the walls ten metres above the floor. Above the catwalks were the grimy windows that let in the orange light from the setting sun, some of which were broken. Lights hung from the ceiling, but they were dark; the windows were the only source of illumination for the otherwise dim warehouse floor.

Mireille walked around the periphery of the warehouse floor, mentally cataloguing vantage points, areas that provided cover from certain angles, and every possible entry and exit point.

After half an hour, she was done. She had what she came for – it was now time to go. She made her way back to the reception area and its offices.

* * *

The next day

* * *

James Bond watched silently from inside the Aston Martin Vanquish parked on the side of the road as the lorry drove on west through the centre of Meaux on the Avenue du President Salvadore Allende. It was a nondescript white Isuzu box lorry, trundling along at about forty kilometres per hour.

The lorry was being escorted by a pair of saloons, a Volkswagen Jetta in front and a Toyota Camry behind, as prior reports indicated. Likewise, the lorry's registration plates matched the ones he was told to expect.

Bond glanced down at his blue Omega Seamaster 300M: 4:34pm. A bit late. It was mid-afternoon; the traffic was starting to pick up for the evening peak.

This was as close as anyone had been to the package yet.

He had spent the past week tracking what was believed to be a shipment of illegal weapons and explosives as it was smuggled west across Europe, crossing several national borders on its journey. Fortunately, various European intelligence agencies had kept 'the package', as it had been designated, under constant surveillance, passing on their information to the next agency as the package crossed borders.

However, no-one had been able to confirm what was in the package, save for the fact that it was contraband, given the involvement of several criminal groups in its transportation as it was taken across the continent. The weapons had first been mentioned in communications intercepts, but there had been no verification that weapons did indeed comprise the contents of the package. Verification would have to wait until the package stopped moving; then an agent could covertly inspect the package.

The concern that had set Europe's intelligence agencies in motion was that the weapons – assuming the package indeed contained weapons and explosives – were part of a black market arms deal that would see them used by terrorists or other criminals.

The package was currently being taken to a location further south, just within the Paris city limits, which, according to communication's intercepts, was where a handover would take place.

Bond picked up the radio lying on the passenger seat. "Falcon Six here," he declared in French. "The package has just passed my position. Package is headed west."

"Roger, Falcon Six," the DCRI operative parked three hundred metres away replied. "Falcon Seven sees the target proceeding west."

"Right on schedule," Bond commented.

"So it would seem," the DCRI operative mused.

"Right. Time to report in. We'll proceed as planned."

"Roger that. Out."

Bond set the radio down on the passenger seat. He pulled out a mobile phone from a pocket and dialled the SIS safehouse in Calais.

"Hello?" someone asked in English.

"Falcon Six here," Bond said in English. "The package has just passed my position in Meaux as scheduled. I have a positive ID on the lorry."

"Roger that, Falcon Six," the man on the other end of the line replied. "So we were right."

"It would seem so." Bond looked down the road. In the distance, the lorry grew smaller. "I'll be continuing surveillance as planned. Next update at 2100 hours."

"Right. Good luck."

Bond terminated the call and pocketed the phone. He started the Aston Martin's engine, released the handbrake, selected first gear, and pulled away from the kerb, driving in the same direction as the lorry.

* * *

From the author: Mireille's adoption of an American accent, which is in progress at the time of this story, is a reference to the English language version of _Noir,_ in which Mireille speaks in an American accent; this was rationalised by her use of the accent as a means of disguise, and to avoid confusion by viewers unfamiliar with a Corsican accent.

We can only speculate as to the manner in which Claude trained Mireille. I'm assuming he taught her basic skills and techniques in a controlled, safe environment, then brought her into 'the field' with increasing degrees of involvement in hits.

Within the series, Noir are depicted as only taking on assignments that involve killing 'bad guys' – this may be to paint the protagonists in a positive light, since they are, after all, assassins. However, I assume that Mireille is actually being selective in the assignments she takes, and have attempted to give a reason for this.

Mireille's age is never established in the series. I've 'given' her an age of nineteen going on twenty at the start of the series to make her as 'old' as possible, since she is meant to be a proficient assassin by the time of the series. This would make her ten going on eleven when her parents and brother were killed, which, according to _Noir's_ internal chronology, is in the year 2001 (episode 4 takes place in August 2010; with gaps of a few weeks between hits, episode 14, when she recalls the deaths of her parents and brother and subsequent departure from Corsica as being ten years prior, would take place early in 2011); she was thus born in 1990. Since this story takes place in early 2009, a bit over a year before episode 1 of _Noir, _she is, therefore, eighteen going on nineteen.

I'm writing with Pierce Brosnan's portrayal of James Bond in mind.

DCRI: _Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur_ (Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence); France's domestic intelligence agency.

SIS: Secret Intelligence Service; the United Kingdom's foreign intelligence agency. Formerly known as Military Intelligence, section 6 (MI6). The abbreviation MI6 is still used colloquially when referring to this agency.

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	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

On the evening of the day after her initial visit, Mireille returned to the warehouse, once again parking the Polo a short distance away. To conceal herself, Mireille wore black – black jacket, black sweater, black jeans, black hiking shoes. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail.

Above, the sky was darkening; street lamps were turned on. The weather was cool, her breath condensing into small clouds.

She was running late; she had been held up by traffic. Hopefully she hadn't missed a chance to get inside and wait it out for Morgan yet. Impatient, she just wanted to get on with it and get inside, but she had to take a look at a distance first.

Before leaving the car, she had surveyed the warehouse through a pair of compact binoculars. She could see that the lights inside were on; yellow-white light could be seen in the windows. There was a man patrolling the periphery of the warehouse at ground level, and one standing outside the reception entrance.

She had noted on driving past the warehouse that the main gate was now closed and guarded from within by a man in a suit (one of Morgan's goons, no doubt), so she scaled the chain-link fence, taking care to avoid the barbed wire at the top.

Once on the other side, Mireille dropped into a crouch. Reaching into her jacket, Mireille drew the Walther P5 from her shoulder holster. It was the same make and model as that of her uncle; she had been trained on it, and she was, for the time being, reluctant to select another weapon. Claude had asked if she wanted her own weapon – something different, perhaps – but she decided to stick to the P5, at least for now.

She reached into a pocket and drew a suppressor, screwing it onto her P5. Hefting the weapon, she slowly started creeping towards the warehouse.

* * *

Bond turned north and parked the Aston Martin a short distance away from the warehouse. Ahead and to his right, the lorry and its two escorts drove through the gate onto the warehouse grounds.

Bond, along with two DCRI agents operating under the callsigns Falcon Seven and Falcon Eight, had followed the lorry as it passed through Meaux. The lorry was driven south through Paris to an abandoned warehouse, where it was met by five men in two more cars. Falcons Seven and Eight remained in their cars on standby at two different positions in the general area, ready to follow any vehicles that left the warehouse.

The DCRI had several agents at four observation posts around the warehouse, each with a parabolic microphone and a spotter and sniper, and the French National Police had two RAID units and several DCSP officers on standby in the surrounding streets in case things went awry.

Soon, the package would change hands, with another party coming to take possession of it.

Bond drew an earpiece with a short microphone stump from a pocket and put it on, over his right ear. The earpiece was at the end of a short cable; he plugged it into the handheld radio on the passenger seat. He touched a button set into the side on the earpiece.

"All callsigns, this is Sabre," Bond declared in English. "Radio check."

"Sabre, this is Epee One," came a French-accented male voice. "I read you, five by five."

"Epee Two," said another voice, this time female. "Loud and clear."

"Epee Three," said a third voice, another female. "Loud and clear."

A fourth voice, another male, was heard over the radio. "Sabre, Epee Four. Five by five."

"Sabre, this is Rapier One," came a fifth voice, a third male. "Loud and clear."

"Rapier Two, Sabre," said a sixth voice, another male. "We read you loud and clear."

"This is Gauntlet, Sabre," said a seventh voice, a female. "We copy you."

"Roger, all callsigns." Bond clipped the handheld radio to his belt. He left the Vanquish, closed the door, locked the car with his remote, and started walking down the street.

"Sabre is up," he said as he started walking away from the car. "Approaching the warehouse from the west."

"Roger. Epee Three sees you."

"Sabre, this is Epee Four. The west approach to the warehouse is clear. A single patrol to the south, heading east. You are good to go."

"Roger, Epee Four," Bond replied.

"Wait," Epee Three said abruptly. "Wait. Negative. Stand by, Sabre. Epee Three has a visual on someone on the south-west entering the warehouse grounds. They just cleared the fence."

Bond stopped in his tracks. "A guard?" he asked.

"No. This person approached from the street. They just stopped and climbed over the fence on the south side at your one o'clock."

Bond reached into his jacket and drew a compact night-vision monocular. Turning it on, he directed it towards the warehouse, looking through the eyepiece. The view on the display was monochrome, objects appearing in shades of green.

Adjusting the zoom, he just made out a dark-clad figure crouching by the fence. The figure slowly crept towards the warehouse in a hunched over posture, their back to him.

"Roger, Sabre sees the target," he reported. "One individual to the south, inside the fence."

"That's them." Epee Three paused. "Currently heading towards the warehouse."

Another pause. "Wait. Wait. She's armed. She just drew a weapon."

"She?" Bond asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That's right. Subject is female."

Bond adjusted the zoom and focus. Sure enough, it was a woman. A curious passer-by, perhaps? Or was there something else going on here?

Bond turned off the monocular and pocketed it. "Roger that, I'll intercept her inside. I'm continuing my approach. Keep your eyes open, Epee."

* * *

Mireille pressed herself against the wall of the warehouse. The nearest emergency exit was about nineteen metres away. She slowly crept towards it, pressing herself against the wall all the while. In the distance, a man walked by the wall, away from her. He couldn't see her, but any noise she made would attract his attention.

Finally, she was there. She cautiously reached over to the knob and slowly turned it. She then slowly pulled the door open, swinging it towards her. She promptly bolted inside, turning and carefully closing the door behind her.

Mireille found herself near a walled-off area of the warehouse. The small walled-off area enclosed the toilet cubicles and, to one side, a small separate storage area. Nearby were a series of abandoned storage racks, and some old, empty crates. As she saw outside, the lights – most of them, anyway, for some were not lit for whatever reason – were on, bathing the warehouse's interior in an off-white light.

She started to make her way deeper into the warehouse, towards the large gates.

* * *

Bond stopped by the chain-link fence, looking up at the coils of barbed wire. While he could easily scale the fence, his movements would easily disturb it, and the act of scaling it would leave him vulnerable. He therefore ran the risk of being discovered by one of the roving patrols in a vulnerable position if one of them decided to come back around.

Bond knelt down and drew a pair of wire cutters from his jacket.

* * *

Mireille froze as she heard something thump against one of the rolling doors. The door started to slide up, allowing in white light from the headlights of a vehicle, and a faint red light from the taillights of another vehicle, one that was probably backing into the warehouse.

She bolted to hide behind an old crate on the lowest shelf of a storage rack. Turning, she peered from behind the crate at the newcomers, sticking her head out to her right.

"Ok, it's open," someone called out in French.

A white truck slowly backed into the warehouse, escorted by three casually clad men. Its entrance was marked by loud beeping as the truck slowly backed into the warehouse. It stopped once the entirety of the truck was inside.

"We're running late," one of the men complained loudly as he approached the truck's cabin. "Morgan's gonna kill us."

"Yeah, whatever," the driver replied as he turned off the engine. "See if I care. Just unload the damn crates." He threw a key to the man before opening the door and stepping out of the truck.

Now bearing the key, the man walked over to the back of the truck and unlocked a padlock securing the truck's rear roller door. He pocketed the padlock and pushed up the roller door.

The other two men who had followed the truck into the warehouse retrieved a pair of large trolleys, pushing them over to the man who had just opened the truck's roller door. They were joined at the back of the truck by three other men from outside, plus the driver.

From behind the crate, Mireille watched as the men offloaded a series of large wooden crates from inside the truck, setting them on a nearby storage rack. _Are these the guns? That sure is a lot of crates._

Mireille remained unmoving as the men set the trolleys aside, closed the door on the truck, and left, two of the men entering the truck's cabin and driving it out, flanked by all but two of the others. Finally, the roller door was lowered, slamming down to the concrete floor.

Mireille slowly backed away, retreating further into the depths of the warehouse.

* * *

The guard walking through the warehouse was bored out of his mind. After guarding the warehouse and waiting for the stupid truck for nearly three hours, he was now effectively stuck waiting around some more for Morgan and his client.

He stopped. Something had moved up ahead, beyond the storage racks. He could have sworn he saw a dark object move. Too large to be a rat. His pulse quickened.

He drew and hefted his pistol.

* * *

Trying to keep a low profile, Mireille had lowered herself into a crouch as she retreated. She stopped when she heard a noise off to one side, perhaps the shuffling of feet. Frozen to the spot, her heart pounding, she looked around wide-eyed, waiting for whatever had made the noise to show itself, or at least move again. To limit the noise she made, she took quick, shallow breaths.

Nothing.

She waited just under a minute before deciding to carry on, more slowly this time. She had only just started to move again when she heard something move behind her. She raised her P5 and started to turn on her heel.

The voice came from behind her. "Don't move."

Too late.

* * *

From the author: In _Noir,_ Mireille is shown to be carefully studying her targets, which includes blueprints to various buildings. Since blueprints were unavailable in this instance, she instead went to the location and scouted it herself the day before Morgan would arrive.

I'm assuming that Mireille owns a car for travel outside the Paris CBD and that we simply never see it. We see that in episode 23, she has access to an SUV; whether or not this is hers is unknown.

RAID: _Recherche Assistance Intervention Dissuasion_ (Research, Assistance, Intervention, Deterrence); French National Police special response counter-terrorism unit, based in Paris.

DCSP: _Direction Centrale de la Sécurité Publique_ (Central Directorate of Public Security); a division of the French National Police.

Why are the callsigns for the DCRI/SIS operation based on terms used in swordsmanship and fencing? No reason; I just thought it looked and sounded cool.

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	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

"Don't move."

Mireille froze, her heart pounding, her eyes wide. The voice came from behind her.

"Your weapon. Put it on the ground."

She silently cursed. Her first solo job and she had already failed! Worse, she hadn't even got close to Morgan!

Raising her left hand beside her head, Mireille slowly bent her knees, lowering her P5 to the floor. She set her weapon on the cool concrete below.

"Keep your hands where I can see them."

She raised her right hand, holding both hands up at shoulder level as she straightened herself.

"Turn around."

Mireille turned on her heel slowly, to face the speaker.

The overhead lighting wasn't as bright as other parts of the warehouse, due to the fact that some of the lights apparently weren't working, but she could see that the speaker was a Caucasian man who appeared to be in his late thirties to early forties. About 20 or so centimetres taller than her, he had short, dark brown hair with blue-grey eyes, and his skin bore what looked like the barest hint of a tan.

Like her, he wore black; black jacket over a black sweater, black trousers, black boots.

Bracing his right hand with his left, he held an angular gun with a suppressor on her, looking down its sights. He stood a little over two metres away, out of reach. If she tried to rush him, he could simply pull his trigger. The muzzle was aimed at her forehead, so that would be the end of her.

She'd never seen him before – he wasn't one of Morgan's men, as far as she knew. Was he an advance man working for Morgan's client?

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" he asked her in French.

Mireille glared. "None of your business," she stammered in French. _Why did I have to stammer? I can't show weakness!_

He repeated the second question. "What are you doing here?"

She had to show she wouldn't take this lying down. "Why do you care?"

The man shrugged slightly. "Just curious. One wonders what a teenage girl is doing in a place like this... with a weapon." He briefly gestured towards her P5, lying on the floor, with his pistol. She followed his weapon with her eyes, down to her pistol. So close... and yet so far.

Mireille hesitated for a second. "Well... I like it out here," she replied sardonically. "It's... nice and quiet."

The man raised his pistol again, training it on her forehead. "Nice and quiet? Of all the places in Paris you could go for peace and quiet, why this old warehouse?"

"Er... I... um... like the ambience."

Mireille cursed to herself. Her voice was still shaky.

"A rather odd way to spend a Friday night, isn't it?"

_He sure asked a lot of questions._ Then again, she expected as much. In the meantime, she wasn't going to just roll over and take it.

"What's it to you?" she asked.

"Like I said, one wonders what a teenage girl would be doing here. Especially since you're wearing low-visibility black."

The only upside to this situation was that she wasn't already dead. She had to try and stall him while she thought of something. _Be as vague as possible. _

"I, er... like wearing black," she replied nervously.

"You still didn't answer my original question."

"You first."

"_You_ first," the man said, hefting his pistol for emphasis. "I insist."

Mireille sighed. There was no way she was getting out of this one. "All right... I'm... I'm here for Pierre Morgan."

The man briefly glanced down at her pistol again. "To kill him?"

Mireille hesitated. Did she dare tell him the truth? If he was with Morgan or his client, which was highly likely, the truth would only get her killed on the spot...

"He's up to something. I want to know what."

* * *

Bond narrowed his eyes at the girl.

He was wasting time here; he had hoped to inspect the package and verify the contents, and slip in a series of GPS tracking beacons to make tracking the package's movements easier. Furthermore, Morgan and his client would be arriving shortly – he intended to observe the exchange and stream the footage back to the observation posts, where it would be relayed directly to the DCRI and SIS situation rooms in Paris and London.

But then there was the black-clad blonde girl poking around a darkened corner of the warehouse with a gun, the one Epee Three had seen entering the warehouse from the fence.

Although Epee Three was able to determine the intruder was a woman, the spotter hadn't been able to make out her face. Standing in front of her, Bond could see that she looked like she was in her late teens – she was probably still in high school!

Although she was hesitant and reluctant to answer him, almost stammering on a few occasions, he could detect more than a hint of defiance in her voice.

"Morgan is not your problem," he said to her evenly, still speaking French. "Leave, now. Go home. And I'll forget we met."

"Not without what I came for," she replied.

"And what is that, exactly?"

The girl hesitated. "Um... well... I want to know what Morgan is up to. Like I said."

"Why?"

"He... he killed a friend of mine. I want to know what he's up to next."

Based on her stammered, hesitant response, Bond suspected that she just made that story up right then and there – clearly, she hadn't expected to be caught by anyone.

She claimed to be after Morgan's business. He suspected she intended to kill someone – perhaps Morgan himself, or someone in his inner circle. That wouldn't do.

"This is no place for you. I want you to go. _Now."_

The girl paused. Her mouth opened slightly, as if she were about to say something, but she stopped, closing her mouth. She clearly wanted to protest, but given her situation, she knew she was in no position to do so.

She finally started to respond. "But..."

She stopped, closing her mouth. Apparently, she had decided that further arguing would get her nowhere right now.

Bond frowned at her. Although she was fluent in French, there was something about her accent, which implied she had spent her childhood somewhere else. It was something familiar. Not Italian, not quite. Close...

"A Corsican accent?"

* * *

Mireille felt herself turn red. Her parents had made it a point to teach her Corsu as well as French, and as a result, she spoke French with a Corsican accent, with different stresses and enunciation, and even mispronouncing some words when she was stressed.

He could tell she was from Corsica? That wouldn't do. She cursed to herself.

She nodded and averted her eyes, looking over at a wall.

Mireille had noted in passing that the man's voice was slightly accented, as if French was not his native tongue. Now, she felt confident enough to try and guess at the accent.

She turned to face him again. "You're English, aren't you?" she asked in French.

"That's right," he replied in English. He spoke with an English accent.

Mireille frowned to herself slightly. She likewise changed languages to match him. "So, what are you?" she asked in English. "Interpol?"

The man nodded. He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Is that a hint of an American accent I hear?"

"Um... my English teacher is American." Mireille was secretly pleased that her American accent was starting to take hold.

The man nodded. "So... what shall we do now?" he asked her. She thought she could hear condescension in his voice.

"Well, I'm still going in," she replied.

"I don't think so," he said. "As I said, _you_ go home. Now."

"No. I'm not leaving."

* * *

She was stubborn. Bond was considering his next move when his earpiece buzzed.

"Sabre, this is Epee Two," a voice said in English.

"Wait," Bond said, raising his left hand. He reached over to the earpiece and pressed it, averting his eyes briefly as he did so.

"Sabre reads you," Bond replied, returning his left hand to his Walther P99 and turning back to the girl. "Go ahead, Epee."

"Have you managed to locate the package?"

Bond looked at the girl through narrowed eyes. "Negative."

"Epee Two reports multiple vehicles approaching the warehouse from the south-east. Three sedans. Looks like Morgan is a little early."

"Roger, three vehicles approaching from the south. Have you informed Rapier?" Bond asked.

"Affirmative, Sabre. Rapier One and Rapier Two remain on standby."

"Good."

"They're just entering the warehouse grounds. Suggest you get in position if you haven't already."

"Wilco. Out."

Bond touched his earpiece again with his left ear. He turned his attention back to the girl.

"Alright. Get out of here."

She shook her head. "No."

Bond raised his P99 again. "I already told you, this is no place for you. Leave. _Now."_

The girl hesitated.

In the distance, someone shouted in French.

Bond took a fleeting look in the direction of the voice, keeping his P99 on the girl. From this angle, he couldn't see much; the men had all turned to face the open gate, where a pair of headlights shone into the warehouse from outside.

He turned back to the blonde girl. "If you're not leaving, then hide!" He bent over and scooped up the girl's P5 with his left hand. Seeing it wasn't cocked, he shoved it into his waistband.

Leaving her behind, he cautiously started towards the better-lit part of the warehouse floor near the gates, where the men were assembled by the stationary lorry.

He adopted a hunched posture as he crept along the warehouse floor, to try to present a lower profile. Where he could, he moved behind old crates or storage racks.

Briefly, he thought back to the girl; he didn't like the idea of just leaving her, but he could only hope that deprived of her weapon, the girl would see that she had no choice but to leave.

Hearing a noise behind him, he sighed and turned around. Sure enough, the girl was right there, shuffling up to him. "What do you think you're doing?"

The girl looked at him intently as she stopped moving, a look of determination on her face. "Whatever you're doing, I want in."

"I told you to get back!" he hissed.

"You told me to hide. So I'm hiding. With you."

Bond's shoulders sagged slightly as he sighed again. Clearly, he wouldn't be able to get rid of her easily. She was persistent, he would give her that.

"All right. Keep your head down and shut up."

The girl nodded. Bond turned around and started moving again.

* * *

As they turned a corner to go around a storage rack, Mireille saw something out of the corner of one eye. She stopped, turning to face a crate that had been set against a wall.

"Wait," she said softly in French, as she crept towards the crate, shoulders slightly hunched over. The top was open. Inside was something dark-coloured. She narrowed her eyes slightly...

Her eyes widened when she saw the body inside. It was a man, wearing a black jacket over a black jumper and olive green cargo pants.

The mystery man had come up next to her. "Oh, him," he said casually, looking down into the crate at the body. "He's... packing. Right now, he's taking a minute."

Mireille turned to face him. "Did you..."

The man nodded. He then turned around and kept walking, continuing along the storage rack.

Mireille remained standing there, looking down at the body. Something wasn't right – the way he so casually brushed off killing the man.

After a few seconds, Mireille finally turned around and returned to following the mystery man.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

Bond finally found a vantage point that offered cover and was close enough for him to make out faces. He crouched behind an old wooden crate set low near the end of a rusting storage rack, about twenty-five metres away from where Morgan's men were assembled.

Behind him, the girl stopped moving. Bond took a brief glance at her to make sure she was concealed. She was; she had crouched behind the crate next to his.

Bond removed the suppressor from his P99 and pocketed it. After holstering the P99, he risked a peek over the top of the crate.

From what he could see, the crates were all offloaded from the lorry. They were easily distinguished from the old crates that dotted the warehouse by their condition and the fact that several were all clustered together. Some were wooden, some dull green plastic. They all occupied one storage rack.

Everyone there seemed to be focused on the people outside. Light from at least one set of headlights still shone into the warehouse from outside.

Bond ducked back behind the crate, resting his back against it, and reached into a pocket on his jacket. He drew a compact Sony digital camera and set it on the floor next to him. From another pocket, he pulled out a small telescoping rifle microphone and a second camera, a small digital video camera on an equally small tripod. All three devices were linked wirelessly to a small transceiver Bond wore in another pocket.

Setting the video camera on the floor, Bond pulled on the opposite ends of the microphone, extending it to its full length. He then switched the device on, and a small LED set into the plastic by the switch glowed green.

The girl frowned at him. "What are you doing? she asked him in French.

"What does it look like?" Bond replied, looking up at her briefly. "Surveillance."

* * *

Crouched next to the man, Mireille frowned, narrowing her eyes slightly. "I see. For... Interpol."

His attention focused on his equipment, the man nodded silently in acknowledgement.

She turned and took a peek from between two crates.

Nearby, Morgan and his men were arriving. Two cars, one of which was Morgan's black Mercedes-Benz sedan, drove through the opened gate, while the third car remained outside.

Pierre Morgan emerged from the rear right door of his Mercedes, clad in a dark blue trenchcoat and a grey suit. His brown hair was slicked back. He walked over to one of the men clustered near the crates and greeted him.

A second later, his right-hand man, Galle, disembarked from the left side. Galle wore a brown leather jacket over a black shirt and beige trousers. He wore his blond hair short, just too long to be called a crew cut. He looked around the warehouse with narrowed eyes before turning his attention to Morgan, who was conversing with the group who had brought the crates to the warehouse.

Mireille narrowed her big blue eyes at them. Morgan was close. So close...

She looked over at the mystery man in black, who was still busy setting up his equipment. She couldn't see it, but she knew that he still had her Walther tucked into his waistband.

So close... and yet so far.

* * *

Bond shuffled behind the crate, turning back around to face the assembled men. He carefully set the rifle microphone on top of the crate, pointing it at Morgan and his men.

The earpiece buzzed again. "Sabre, Epee Three."

Bond reached up to his earpiece again. "Go ahead, Epee," he acknowledged in English.

"What's your status?"

"Sabre is in position. I have a visual on Morgan."

"Roger that, Sabre. Epee Three reports more vehicles approaching from the south. Three more sedans and another truck. Must be the client."

In the distance, he heard more car engines. "I hear them. Sabre out."

Bond looked up over the top of the crate again. More headlights shone into the warehouse.

The car engines stopped and the light from the headlights went out. Morgan and his men were standing in a group just inside the warehouse entrance, looking outside.

Bond looked over at the girl. She was looking intently at the group through the gap between the crates, not saying a word.

He turned back to Morgan. He and his men walked deeper into the warehouse as more men walked in through the open gate, as if following them inside. The new arrivals were mostly casually dressed, although five of them wore suits.

This must be Morgan's client and his entourage.

Bond raised the Sony camera and set it to stream live video to the transceiver in his jacket. Setting it on the crate, he started recording the exchange. A second later, he pulled the transmitter from his pocket and turned it on. The transmitter proceeded to stream the Sony's video and the microphone's audio to the DCRI observation posts and to a transceiver in the Vanquish, both of which in turn relayed the signal to the SIS and DCRI situation rooms in London and Paris.

He then turned on the video camera. Unlike the Sony, this camera could be remote controlled by whoever was viewing the feed. It could pan 180°, tilt 120° and zoom up to fourteen times magnification. He unfolded its tiny tripod and set it next to the Sony on top of the crate. It, too, started streaming.

Behind the men was a second white box lorry, slowly backing in to the warehouse. After it finally stopped, its driver turned off the engine before disembarking and opening the roller door on the back.

Finally, Bond could see who he assumed was the second group's leader, wearing a dark blue suit, walking in the midst of his escort over to Morgan.

The client was, as they suspected, Davide Renaud, a locally-based arms dealer, suspected to be supplying arms to various criminal groups and antigovernment organisations in western Europe. Like Morgan, Renaud was on the rise in the criminal underworld, and according to DCRI reports, he was seeking to expand his reach outside western Europe; he was trying to establish contacts with criminal groups in former Eastern Bloc countries and in northern Africa.

Bond took the earbuds plugged into the rifle microphone and placed one in his left ear. He shifted the microphone slightly, aiming at Renaud.

"Ah, Pierre, good to see you," Renaud said in French, offering a friendly smile.

"You too," Morgan replied. "How are you this evening?"

"Well enough," Renaud answered. "And you?"

"I'm good." Morgan nodded. "You should know, it was not easy getting these weapons across Europe undetected. My driver tells me we had a few close calls."

"Well, they're here, which is all that matters." Renaud took steps towards the crates as he spoke. "I suppose this proves that I made the right choice in enlisting you as my courier for this shipment."

Morgan offered a faint grin. "Indeed. I aim to please."

Renaud nodded. "Good. With that in mind, I believe I'll inspect my weapons."

"_Your_ weapons?" Morgan appeared to be somewhat amused with the assertion. "They're still _mine._ By the way, did I mention they were not easy to bring here, either? Let's see the money first."

Bond couldn't see Renaud's face from this angle, but his voice carried more than a hint of irritation. "Very well." Renaud turned to his left. "Paul? Show the man his money."

One of Renaud's men walked outside, presumably back to one of the cars. Bond turned the Sony to follow him, but turned it back around once the man walked out of the warehouse. The video camera whirred softly on its tripod as it panned to the right to follow him out, but like Bond, it turned back to Morgan and Renaud as the man left.

After a minute, the man came back with a large grey attaché case. Upon seeing it, Renaud simply said, "Open it."

The man set the case on the ground, opening it. Tilting down slightly, the video camera followed the case to the ground.

Bond took the Sony camera and shifted it slightly, zooming in as he moved the camera. He couldn't make out the contents; the case had been opened away from him, so all he and the remote-controlled camera could see was the back.

Morgan bent over and picked up a stack of €100 bills from inside the case. The video camera tilted up slightly as he rose.

Morgan flicked through it casually, as if inspecting it. He nodded. "Good. Thank you, Davide." Morgan moved to pocket the stack of bills in his coat.

Renaud reached out and grabbed him by the wrist with his right hand. "Not a cent, until I see my weapons." He held up his left hand.

Morgan sighed. "Very well." He handed over the stack with an expression of tired resignation. Renaud tossed the money back into the open attaché case, which was promptly closed.

As the man with the attaché case stood, the case in one hand, Morgan turned to one of his men. "Jean-Paul, open a crate for Mister Renaud, please."

The man nodded and jogged over to a storage rack, picking up a rusted crowbar on his way. The group followed him slowly over to the storage rack. Bond carefully turned the Sony, and the video camera rotated, panning to follow him.

The man jammed the crowbar under the lid of one wooden crate and pushed down on it. After a few tries, he managed to open the crate.

Bond frowned; he couldn't see the contents.

The video camera zoomed in.

Renaud reached in and lifted out an AK-47 assault rifle.

_Good._

He looked it over for a few seconds, seemingly inspecting it, before operating the charging handle. Renaud then lifted up a magazine and inserted it into the AK-47.

Renaud cycled the AK-47's charging handle twice. The second time, a round flew out of the ejection port, landing on the concrete floor. One of his men picked up the errant round and held it out for him.

* * *

Galle fidgeted slightly, his eyes slowly sweeping back and forth over the assembled men. He was impatient; he wanted Renaud to get it over with so they could take the money and go, but the man seemed to be taking his time.

Nearby, Renaud picked up another AK-47 and inspected it.

In the distance, he thought he could hear cars. He glanced out the open gate, at the street outside. It was getting darker out there.

No big deal; cars came and went.

He turned back to Morgan and Renaud. Renaud asked to see the contents of another case. Morgan obliged, asking Philippe to open another crate.

* * *

Bond's radio hissed. "Sabre, this is Epee Two."

Bond grunted with annoyance as he ducked back behind the crate. "Sabre. Go ahead, Epee Two."

"Epee Two reports more vehicles coming in from the north-east. Four sedans, all of them packed."

Bond sighed. According to the DCRI, some rival criminal groups were less than pleased with the fact that Morgan had managed to 'win' the 'rights' to this shipment. Some of them, it was suspected, may have felt compelled to take action by attempting to wrest control of the shipment or the cash payment from Morgan if they knew where the handoff was to be made, or perhaps they would come simply to kill Morgan out of spite.

"We knew this might happen," he finally replied. "Hold positions."

* * *

After another couple of minutes' worth of inspection, Renaud seemed satisfied. He nodded and had his man turn over the case of money to Morgan, who smiled as he took possession of it. Renaud had five of his men start loading the crates onto his truck. Morgan had Philippe, Jean-Paul and Michael help.

Another set of cars were passing by. Galle heard them; the cars grew ever louder as they passed in front of the warehouse.

Still, no reason to worry, he thought; maybe they were just passing through, and then they would fade off into the distance again...

No. He could see the cars pulling into the warehouse grounds from the gate outside. Their headlights shone into the warehouse.

He turned to Morgan. "Boss, we have visitors."

The assembled men looked around nervously. Some reached into their clothes for concealed weapons.

Morgan turned to Renaud. "They're not mine. Are they _your_ friends?" he asked, suspicion and concern in his voice.

Renaud shook his head. "No."

Some of them clearly uneasy, those of Renaud's men who weren't busy loading the truck drew pistols from inside their coats or from their belts. At least one of them aimed his weapon at Morgan. In response, one of Morgan's men drew his pistol and aimed it at him.

Galle squinted at the oncoming convoy. He could just make out some of the men inside the first car. His eyes widened.

"Shit! It's Bertrand!" he shouted.

Galle drew his Glock 17 from its shoulder holster. Morgan and the rest of his men likewise produced weapons from under their clothing, aiming them out the gate at the oncoming cars.

The men loading the truck abandoned their task, even though they were almost done; they had loaded all but two of the crates of weapons and explosives.

The new cars, four of them, stopped just outside the warehouse, their headlights shining inside. The cars' lights died out with the engines, and their passengers disembarked, all of them drawing weapons and promptly striding into the warehouse through the open gate, seemingly undeterred by the presence of more than a dozen armed men with weapons trained on them. Each car had had four men in it, including the driver; clearly, they meant business.

* * *

Mireille watched the tableau with dismay. _No!_

She was afraid of this – someone else trying to come in and kill Morgan before her. She had no idea how patient her client was, or how many other assassins he had tasked with killing Morgan, or how long he would be willing to wait for her to kill him, or even if some other rival organisations had the same idea. There were rumours that Michel Bertrand, another local crime boss, had been particularly angry about losing this shipment and its significant payment to Morgan, and that he had been considering killing Morgan for the shipment and taking credit by delivering it to Renaud himself.

And now, here he was. His expression and stride suggested he did not intend to play nice.

She knew people could be impatient, and she had asked this of Claude early in her training, but he had responded that irrespective of the client's tastes, slow, careful planning was infinitely more valuable than a rush job to quickly satisfy a client that could be easily botched. According to Claude, anyone willing to hire a professional should know this, and if they didn't, well, they had no business looking to professional assassins.

She agreed with him, but still... this was unacceptable. Her first job! Snatched away, right in front of her!

She had to get in and kill Morgan herself! _Now!_

Looking over at the mystery man, she saw his attention was entirely focused on his camera, which he had propped on top of the crate. She shifted slightly, turning her whole body to face him; now she could just see her P5 inside his open jacket.

Her heart racing, she bit her lip. Lunging forward, she yanked open the man's jacket with her right hand and darted in with her left, snatching her P5 and pulling it from his waistband.

The man stifled a surprised grunt as he was pulled backward, landing on his butt. He had managed to support himself with his left hand, though, so he didn't fall on his back. He looked up at her with surprise, his right arm in the air.

"What the...?"

Mireille looked down at him as she turned the weapon around in her hands to hold it by the grip. Now crouching over him, she reached into his jacket, undid the flap on his holster, pulled out his pistol, and set it on the ground next to her foot. Drawing herself upright, she bent slightly and swept the weapon away with her right foot.

"I'm sorry," she said, and she meant it. While he did get in her way, the guy wasn't really _bad – _or at least, he didn't come across as such.

She hefted her newly reacquired P5 and turned, hunching over and slowly walking away from him.

* * *

Bond zoomed the camera in on the man walking up to Morgan. No shots had been fired yet, but with all the armed men in the one place, who knew when it would erupt into a gunfight?

He felt his jacket being violently yanked to the side. A hand promptly darted in and pulled the P5 from his belt.

Unprepared, Bond fell backward, landing on his arse. He quickly moved his left arm and braced himself with his left hand, to stop from continuing his backwards movement and falling on his back. He grunted with surprise at the impact.

Looking up to his left, he saw the girl had taken her P5 from his waistband. She was crouched over him, turning her weapon around to hold it by the grip.

"What the...?" he started.

The girl was now holding the weapon on him, pointing it at his chest. She reached into his jacket, groping around his chest. Stopping at his holster, she unsnapped the flap, drew his P99, and set it on the floor next to her. She then stood, bending over slightly, and she carefully kicked his P99 away.

The girl looked down at him, her eyes apologetic.

"I'm sorry."

And with that, she turned and started slowly walking away.

"Damn it!" Bond hissed through his teeth. He remained frozen for a few seconds, and then he started to carefully slide himself along the floor towards his P99. He could only hope that his fall had gone unnoticed.

* * *

"Morgan, you little shit," Michel Bertrand snarled as he practically stormed up to them, his dark grey coat billowing in his wake. "Did you really think you could hide from me?"

"Nice to see you, too," Morgan replied sardonically. His hand twitched as he gripped his Glock 19, arm hanging at his side. One of his men stepped back as the man approached, his SIG P226 trained on him.

"What do you think you're doing, muscling in on my turf like this?" Bertrand came to a stop about five metres away from him. Behind him, his entourage formed a small, loose semicircle, guns at the ready.

_He was known for his temper, all right._ Morgan didn't feel like being civil right now, though. He had the deal, the money was practically his, and he wouldn't be intimidated by Bertrand. Not this time.

"Hey, _I_ got the job this time," Morgan shot back. "Deal with it."

"I think I will." He raised his SIG P228. "I think I'll kill you, and him, and take the guns and money and be on my way." He twitched his head in Renaud's direction.

"Bullshit you will," Renaud replied, bringing his Heckler and Koch USP Compact up to eye level, sighting Bertrand's head.

* * *

Mireille shuffled along, moving slowly and as quietly as possible along the storage rack. She had to hurry, but she also had to find a spot where she could shoot from cover...

Here was something looking promising. Another crate, a very short distance away. It offered cover and a good position to shoot Morgan from.

She stopped behind the new crate, looking over by poking her head around to the left. She estimated that she was about twenty metres away from Morgan.

No. While she could probably score a direct hit at this range, she had to get in closer to guarantee a kill.

Mireille moved away, still going along the storage rack. She heard the conversation becoming increasingly heated. She just needed them to hold off shooting each other a bit longer...

* * *

Bond was lucky. They were too focused on each other to notice the noise of his fall.

Bond turned to his left; the girl was moving quietly along the storage rack they were currently hiding behind.

He hefted his P99. He had to stop her.

* * *

Aha. Another crate.

This crate was closer. Fifteen or so metres. Not quite as much cover – this one was falling apart – but it was as close as she could get while having cover at all.

Still hunched over, Mireille moved over to the newly selected crate as swiftly as possible, carefully stepping through the storage rack.

* * *

"All units, this is Gauntlet," said a French-accented female voice over the radio.

Bond froze as he reached for the suppressor in his pocket. Gauntlet was the callsign for the DCRI situation room in Paris, currently occupied by representatives from senior French government and law enforcement agencies, as well as representatives from the SIS and the BND. All of them would have been receiving video and audio feed from both himself (through the transceivers in the area) and from all four DCRI observation posts.

Content to simply listen in, Gauntlet had left them alone until now – they obviously considered the situation serious if they chose to give orders now.

"Seal off the area. Rapier is to move into position and attack on my mark.

"Sabre, you are to abandon your position and prepare to withdraw."

Bond turned back to the group of criminals, who now appeared to be locked in a standoff. Still watching them, he slowly holstered his P99.

"Gauntlet, this is Rapier One," said one of the RAID officers. "I copy you. Rapier One is moving."

"Gauntlet, Rapier Two," came another voice. "Rapier Two is on the move. ETA three minutes."

Bond turned to his left; the girl was long gone. Probably moving further up. He didn't want to risk a civilian caught in the crossfire.

"Negative, Gauntlet," Bond said. "Sabre is holding position."

"This could get ugly, Sabre," Epee One said. "I agree with Gauntlet. Just leave the cameras and prepare to withdraw."

"Wait. I'm not done yet."

"Yes, you are, Sabre," said a male voice, a senior officer from the DCRI command centre. "This is a direct order. Stand down and prepare to withdraw."

* * *

Now behind the crate, Mireille felt her heart beating rapidly in her chest. She took a deep breath and stuck her head around the corner.

Morgan was still facing the others, his back to her.

Exhaling, Mireille drew herself back behind the crate. This is it...

Drawing in another breath, she turned again, swinging her body around the side of the crate. She brought her P5 up, lining up the sights with Morgan's back.

Mireille tensed her finger on the P5's trigger.

* * *

Outside, the two ten-man RAID assault groups approached from the north and the south. Each group had split up into two teams of five. Each would be entering the warehouse from a different side. At the same time, police from the DCSP started to set up road blocks in the surrounding streets.

"Rapier One One in position," declared one of the team leaders as his unit arrived at the north wall.

* * *

The first of two teams from Rapier Two had arrived at the south wall, waiting by the open main gate. "Rapier Two One in position," said its team leader into his radio.

* * *

Morgan screamed.

Bond drew himself slightly more upright. He frowned down at the Sony, looking at the image of the men on its LCD monitor, then looked up at them directly.

He gritted his teeth in anger. _Damn it, the girl!_

Morgan fell to his knees, dropping his pistol and clutching his left shoulder. His men shouted in alarm, looking down at him with widened eyes as he collapsed to the floor.

Many of the assembled men shouted in alarm and began sweeping their eyes and weapons in all directions as they looked for whoever had fired the shot. Renaud took a surprised step back before sweeping his pistol in the direction Morgan had been shot from. Even Bertrand was distracted; even though he was set on killing Morgan a second before, he had seemingly abandoned that line of thought, as he, too, was waiting for the next shot to ring out, swinging his pistol about and looking for the shooter with widened eyes.

Bond narrowed his eyes at them, reaching into his jacket again.

* * *

"Rapier One Two in position," declared the second Rapier One team as it arrived at the warehouse's west wall, having moved across the north wall.

* * *

The last team to arrive was the second Rapier Two team, which arrived outside a fire exit on the east side of the warehouse. "Rapier Two Two in position."

* * *

"We are standing by for your go, Gauntlet," announced Epee One over the radio.

"Roger that, Epee," replied the male DCRI officer. "Sabre, abandon your position and withdraw."

"Not yet," Bond said, taking another look over the crate. He ducked down when he saw that one of Renaud's men was looking in his direction. Bond cautiously shuffled to his left, leaning over to look between the two crates.

"There's the shooter!" one of Morgan's men yelled. A second later, a gunshot sounded.

Bond pulled back behind the crate, tapped his earpiece and hurriedly drew his Walther from his shoulder holster.

"Sabre to Rapier!" Bond said hurriedly into the microphone in English. "We have shots fired! Move in now!"

Gunfire sounded in the warehouse as several of the men fired their weapons.

* * *

Mireille ducked back behind the crate as soon as the shot hit Morgan, practically clutching her P5 to her chest, her heart pounding. She heard him scream and grunt with pain.

After a few seconds, she risked another look around the side of the crate.

She had hit Morgan, but it wasn't a fatal shot. He had taken the bullet in the left shoulder, and had been rolled over on the concrete floor on his right shoulder. Galle was hunched over him, looking around for her, his weapon at the ready.

Then he saw her.

"There's the shooter!" he bellowed, raising his pistol.

Mireille's eyes widened with shock. She turned and ran, drawing herself up to her full height as she practically leapt from her crouch. Behind her, bullets splintered the old crate and struck the wall behind her, as a dozen armed men turned their weapons on her.

* * *

Fire exits on three walls of the warehouse burst open. Teams of black-clad RAID officers armed with Heckler and Koch G36 assault rifles and Fabrique Nationale P90 submachine guns quickly entered the warehouse, one after another. A five-man team also poured in through the warehouse's open gate.

Panicked, the assembled criminals tried to scatter as the RAID officers yelled for them to drop their weapons and lie on the ground. Some turned their guns on the newly arrived RAID officers. Some ran for cover within the warehouse. Others ran outside for their cars, somehow rushing past the RAID team entering through the gate. The warehouse was filled with shouts and gunfire.

The men turning their weapons on the RAID officers were themselves gunned down as they opened fire.

* * *

Gripping his P99, Bond turned to his right and looked out on to the warehouse floor from behind the crate.

RAID officers poured in from each side of the warehouse. Several of the assembled men ran for cover, behind other crates, storage racks, or the cars and trucks inside the warehouse. Some ran outside, ostensibly to their cars. Some stood their ground and opened fire.

As his team ran into the warehouse, one of the RAID officers skidded to a halt next to him, having seen him hiding behind the crate. Bond turned to face the man and froze in surprise, eyes widening. He instinctively swung his P99 around to bear.

The RAID officer beat him. He raised his P90, bracing it against his shoulder. "Hold it!" he yelled in French. "Drop your weapon!"

"Wait!" Bond said quickly, holding his P99 beside his head, the muzzle pointed at the ceiling. He needed to identify himself. "Sabre!"

"Prove it," the man said coolly.

An authentication challenge. Bond paused for a second before reciting the authentication phrase. "I don't need to prove myself."

The man glanced at the equipment arrayed on top of the crate, nodded tersely and lowered his P90. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Bond replied, lowering his own weapon as his shoulders sagged. "Just keep moving."

The man nodded again, clapped him on the shoulder and moved to rejoin his comrades.

Drawing himself up to his feet and turning back to the warehouse floor, Bond saw that Galle, Morgan's right-hand man, had grabbed a man and yanked him aside amidst the confusion, pinning him to the side of the lorry Renaud's men brought, the one with the weapons now loaded onto it. Bond could barely see the man hurriedly hand over a set of keys.

Galle released the man and climbed into the lorry's cabin.

_So, Morgan decided to commandeer the lorry._

Morgan ran around and pulled the roller door to the back of the lorry shut. He then ran over to the other side of the cab, followed by one of his men. He hurriedly climbed into the lorry as its engine started.

As soon as the third man pulled himself inside and slammed the door shut, the lorry lurched forward as Galle slammed on the throttle. The lorry started out of the warehouse amidst the gunfire. One of the RAID officers turned to shoot, but the lorry had already left the warehouse and was fast headed for the main gate.

Bond cursed and turned around, running back the way he came. With everyone else thus occupied, Bond was unmolested as he made his exit.

As soon as he was outside, Bond drew his car keys and pressed a button on the custom key fob.

* * *

A block away, the Aston Martin Vanquish sat silently, the engine still cooling from the journey across Paris.

In response to a command from the key remote, the car abruptly came to life, the electronics in the car beeping for a second before the lights in the instrument cluster flared. With most of the lights going out, the gearbox automatically selected neutral, the red LED display changing from 1 to N despite the absence of a driver to see the transition. The red start button on the centre console was backlit. The starter motor whirred, and the V12 engine roared to life a second later, interrupting the relative calm of the evening. The backlighting in the start button died out.

Sensing the darkness, the exterior lights turned on, cutting into the darkness with red and white light. The numerals in the instrument cluster were backlit in blue as the interior lighting came on. The gearbox selected first and the parking brake disengaged itself.

* * *

Leaving the gunfire behind, Bond raced back towards the Vanquish. His priority was to reacquire the package, and the only way to do that right now was to chase down Morgan.

The tungsten silver Aston Martin V12 Vanquish, KE02 EWW, had been repaired and upgraded following the operation in Iceland several years prior. Upgrades included a new radar tracking system, upgrades to the software governing the target-seeking shotguns, faster wireless computer uplinks to SIS facilities, engine modifications to increase maximum power and torque across the rev range, new software for the electro-hydraulically actuated paddle-shift manual gearbox, and upgrades for the car's dynamics and handling, including new wheel bearing assemblies, springs, dampers, brakes and new steering arms for quicker steering responses. The result was an armed and armoured mobile reconnaissance and communications platform that was faster and more responsive than before.

However, the car's adaptive camouflage system, which acted to render the car difficult to see from certain angles, had been irreparably damaged after Bond subjected the car to a torrent of water by ramming into a flooded room (which in and of itself would not have been so bad, had several of the system's polymer panels and cameras not been previously damaged from gunfire and ramming into various objects), breaking the windscreen open, and ramming the car through a wall of ice more than two feet thick, so the remaining polymer panels and cameras were stripped from the car. As Bond recalled, Q had not been happy about that; the system apparently took years of development and cost millions of pounds, and he had claimed that it alone was more expensive than everything else on the car put together.

Finally, he arrived at the street where he had parked the car. The Vanquish's lights were on, and the engine was idling, waiting for him.

* * *

Once the shooting started, all Mireille could do was run for cover. She had somehow managed to avoid being shot, and ended up taking refuge behind an old metal staircase.

Then, something she didn't count on happened. Black-clad men with automatic weapons, probably RAID police officers, streamed into the warehouse. That prompted the men to run for cover or retreat outside.

She lost track of Morgan amid the chaos after the RAID teams entered the warehouse, but after a few seconds, she saw that Galle was getting into the truck Renaud had brought. At the same time, Morgan hurriedly pulled the door on the back of the truck shut before running around to the other side. A few seconds later, the truck pulled out of the warehouse.

Turning to her right, she saw that the black-clad Interpol man was leaving the warehouse.

_He must be after Morgan._

Mireille abandoned her position and started running, running past the old storage racks. All she could think of was getting to Morgan, and this man seemed to be her best chance of doing so.

The man left via a fire exit. Mireille continued to follow the man outside, leaving the gunfire behind. He had a good headstart, and his black clothing made him hard to see at times, but she never really lost him.

After following him for a block, she saw him stop in front of a low-slung, beautiful metallic grey sports car, its lights on and its engine running. He opened the door on the right-hand side of the car and got in.

* * *

Bond had barely planted himself into the driver's seat when he heard the passenger door open. Reaching into his jacket for his P99, he looked up to his left as the girl opened the Vanquish's passenger door.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he shouted at her in English.

"Going after Morgan!" she yelled back in her accented English as she entered the car.

Bond glared, drawing his P99 and levelling it at her, his right forearm crossing his chest to point the pistol. "Get out. You'll only get in the way."

"Whatever. I want Morgan." She pulled the Vanquish's door closed.

"You just compromised a major international operation," Bond replied sharply. "I hope you're pleased with yourself. We think those weapons could be used to arm terrorists!"

The girl's eyes widened. "What?"

"Do I look like I'm joking? What did you think Morgan was delivering those weapons for, a party?"

She paused for a second, biting her lip. "Um... all the more reason for me to come with you!" she finally replied. "You'll need help!"

Just what he needed, Bond thought. An impatient, stubborn, trigger-happy teenager.

However, they were wasting time arguing. The lorry was getting away; Bond saw that in the distance, it had just run a police roadblock. It was followed by several speeding saloons.

Bond sighed as he turned back to the girl. "Put on your seat belt."

* * *

From the author: Although Mireille is cautious and slow when required, I've tried to write her as being slightly impatient and impulsive, the idea being that she hasn't _quite_ become the cool, calm, collected Mireille in the series yet.

BND: _Bundesnachrichtendienst_ (Federal Intelligence Service); Germany's foreign intelligence service.

Thank you for reading! Please leave feedback!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

The girl dutifully, and more than a little sheepishly, put on her seat belt, her P5 on her lap. Bond did the same after holstering his P99; the last thing he needed was to be thrown around the cabin while chasing the lorry at speed.

He touched his earpiece. "Epee, Sabre here. I am commencing pursuit. Where did that lorry go?"

"Sabre, Epee Two. The truck is headed east, with one of Morgan's cars right behind it. Looks like there's two – no, three cars in pursuit. Falcon Seven and Falcon Eight are already in pursuit."

Bond looked up and saw a dark-coloured saloon speeding out of the warehouse's main gate, following another saloon. Both were speeding away.

"Confirm black saloon that just left the warehouse is in pursuit?" Bond asked.

"Roger that. That's them. One of the cars is Morgan's. The other three... they're the others. Some Bertrand's, some Renaud's."

"Get some police units on them, and get a helicopter in the air. I'm in pursuit. Out."

Bond touched his earpiece again and turned to the girl as he reached over and pressed the 'Sport' button on the centre console. She was in the middle of holstering her P5. "Don't touch any buttons."

He returned his left hand to the leather and aluminium steering wheel. At the same time, he released the brake pedal, which he had been pressing on the whole time. "And... hang on."

* * *

As the man pressed on the throttle with his right foot, Mireille found herself pressed against the leather seat, her eyes widening in shock as the car left the kerb. Her head slammed against the seat's headrest.

She had never been in a car capable of this kind of acceleration before, and she had been taken by surprise. She reached over and grabbed a metal handle set into the door.

Outside, street lamps became blurred streaks of yellow-white light against the darkening scenery. Ahead, the pavement whipped towards and below them at incredible speed, visible in the white light from the headlights. At least there wasn't much traffic right now – the results would not be pretty if they crashed at this speed.

All the while, the large-sounding engine seemed to be... growling, the pitch changing as the car accelerated. Growling almost angrily. Like a race car. There even seemed to be a point beyond which it got _really_ loud while accelerating.

The car, which she had recognised as an Aston Martin of some sort despite not being a petrolhead, changed gear. The engine's howling faded for less than a second. Then she was pressed against her seat again, the noise and acceleration returning.

Realising she never saw him change gear, she looked over at the man, then looked down at the transmission tunnel separating them.

No gear lever. This must be one of those cars with the transmission controls on the steering wheel.

Mireille was almost thrown in her chair, her head whipping first to the right, then to the left as the man whipped the car around a slower car to overtake it. She winced with the shock.

The man straightened the Aston Martin out in front of the other car, pressing harder on the throttle. Once again, she was shoved back into her seat.

Over the loud engine, she barely heard voices on the man's radio earpiece. Some of the voices were speaking French, some English, and that was all she was able to make out. She assumed he was listening in to a police frequency.

Blinking, Mireille cast her eyes around the rest of the darkened cabin. The centre console's buttons were backlit. The one he had pressed before, one of five in a row, had a small glowing red light set into it. The red needles swung in the dials in the instrument cluster, contrasting against the blue numerals. The air carried a faint scent of leather.

Mireille frowned to herself as she looked over at him again. There was something else. Something wasn't right. He should have dealt with her more harshly if he really was a police officer with Interpol – not that she was complaining. Why didn't he try to arrest her?

_Because he was undercover, that's why,_ she thought, answering her own question. He wasn't there to make arrests.

Actually... he didn't ID himself, either. But... did he just not have ID on him in case he was caught? It was possible.

But then there was this car... an Aston Martin. What sort of Interpol officers drove around in luxury sports cars?

"Ok, you're not Interpol," Mireille finally said. "Who are you?"

The man kept his eyes on the road as he turned his radio off. "I work for the British government. We've been following this arms shipment across Europe for over a week. The groundwork for this operation went back two months." The man turned briefly to look at her sharply, for less than a second. "And thanks to you, we've been compromised."

Mireille had no response. Even in the darkened cabin, she couldn't look him in the face; she could practically feel his accusing gaze boring into her face. She turned away and looked out the passenger window.

He'd said before that the weapons could have been going to terrorists. No one had said anything about weapons going to terrorists. _You idiot,_ she thought to herself. _Who did you think those weapons were for?_

If Morgan got away with the weapons, it was possible that the next time she heard about those weapons or explosives would be in relation to a terrorist attack. And it would be her fault for helping to arm them by interfering.

Interrupting her train of thought, the man turned a corner at speed, braking late and sharply turning left. Mireille was almost thrown to the right as the car turned, secured only by the seat belt. The recovery as the car straightened out was a bit abrupt; however, the man never gave the impression of losing control of or 'fighting' with the car, at least, not for more than a second or two.

For that matter, she realised how stupid this whole situation was. She was in a car with a government officer. She was an assassin in training.

However, he didn't know she was an assassin...

No. She tried to kill Morgan. While he didn't see her take the shot, and she had made it a point to stay clear of his cameras when moving up (she was lucky he didn't try to stop her; she still had no reason why), it must have been pretty obvious to him who had fired that shot.

Inwardly, she was surprised he even agreed to let her go with him. When she followed him in the warehouse after he found her, it was because she didn't want to leave empty-handed; knowing what Morgan was up to would at least help in planning her next attempt.

She could have left at any time; he literally told her to. He practically said he wouldn't go after her, too.

However, once Bertrand showed up, the possibility that her kill could be stolen in front of her very eyes became too much to ignore. This was her first hit; knowledge that she was beaten to it could easily set the tone for her career. If she couldn't carry out her first assignment, how could she be expected to carry out others?

She had to act.

It was really adrenaline that had taken over when she decided to take back her gun, fuelling a desire to prove herself by finishing the job she was assigned, no matter what.

That shot should have killed him. Her aim was just a bit too high, too far to the left. Or was it nerves? She recalled her hands shaking a bit as she was about to take that shot – nowhere near as bad as they used to, but shaking nonetheless.

Basically, she had rushed in blindly, not stepping back to reassess the situation.

And now, Morgan was on the run and she had stubbornly barged into a British spy's Aston Martin to try and save face by pursuing him. Even losing Morgan to Bertrand wasn't worth this. There would be other jobs, but not if she wound up dead or arrested.

Claude would have disapproved.

_Damn Bertrand,_ she thought. She hoped the RAID officers – or whoever they were – back at the warehouse got him. Hopefully, he was even dead; killed in the crossfire or shot by an officer. Not that it would do her much good right now.

Mireille stared ahead, watching buildings, street lamps, trees and other cars whip past them. If she ever got out of this one...

* * *

Bond didn't like the idea of bringing the girl with him, but the lorry was fast getting away, and it would be a waste of time to force her out of the car.

This shouldn't prove to be too big a setback – he was confident the Aston Martin's vastly superior speed and agility would make up for the lorry's significant head start, provided, of course, he knew where it was going. Fortunately, with the readily visible cars pursuing the lorry, that wasn't too much of a problem.

All he needed was for the girl to sit there, keep her mouth shut, and not touch any buttons.

It wasn't long before they caught up with it. As Epee Two had indicated, the lorry was being followed by four saloons, plus Falcon Seven's Citroen C6 saloon, which was the second car after the lorry, and Falcon Eight's red Renault Megane, trailing the entire convoy. Apparently, of the four saloons, one was acting as an escort, with the other three in pursuit. Bond didn't know if the other three were filled with Renaud's or Bertrand's men. Not that it mattered.

The saloon directly behind the Citroen, which Bond could just make out as an Audi, came alongside it to its right and swerved into it, trying to ram it into the lane of traffic headed in the opposite direction. The Citroen's driver responded by swerving right, slamming into the Audi. With the other two saloons partially obscuring his view, Bond could barely see the back and forth exchange, the two cars seemingly taking turns to slam into each other.

Bond's radio buzzed. "Falcon Seven here! They're trying to shake me off!"

The Audi pulled over to the right, putting at least four feet between the two cars. Then it came in, slamming into the Citroen again. This time, the Audi's driver succeeded in driving the Citroen onto the other side of the road.

"Oh, shit!"

A car coming down the road in the opposite direction slammed into the Citroen head-on. Due to its high speed, the Citroen continued forward for a few more feet, pushing the other car backwards. It was, however, slowing rapidly with the impact, and it promptly came to a stop.

Even as far away as he was and with the V12's loud engine, Bond could hear the metal crumple. He tapped his earpiece. "Sabre here. Falcon Seven is down!"

Ahead of him, the Renault Megane pulled over to the left, occupying the same lane as the crashed cars. A second later, the Megane's taillights flared as the driver braked. "Falcon Eight here. I'm stopping to assist."

"Roger," Bond acknowledged. "Sabre will continue pursuit." He tapped the headset again to turn off the mike.

The Vanquish came up to and passed Falcon Eight, and the crash, in seconds. Bond didn't so much as glance at the wreckage; instead, he pressed harder on the throttle, pulling on the right paddle to shift up, and the Vanquish closed in on the saloons rapidly, the V12 engine roaring as it sent the car surging forward.

Apparently someone in the last saloon, a dark blue Volkswagen Phaeton, noticed the Aston Martin tearing up the street after them, because someone pulled himself up out of his seat, his head and shoulders sticking out of the front passenger window. He turned to fire a pistol.

The girl gasped. She promptly doubled over and ducked behind the dashboard as the man opened fire.

Bond was unperturbed; he knew that the damage would be merely cosmetic, as the Vanquish's aluminium bodywork had been replaced with titanium alloy and the glass was replaced with laminated bullet-resistant glass. The worst that small arms fire could do was scratch the paint. Nonetheless, he winced as a bullet struck the windscreen, leaving a tiny scratch in the glass.

"We're safe," he said to the girl without turning to look at her. "Bulletproof glass."

Seemingly reassured, the girl straightened herself in the seat, her attention on the shooter in the car ahead.

Ahead, the Volkswagen's driver abruptly braked to turn into a side road. Bond watched the car peel away from the convoy. He assumed that the car would reappear behind them in about a minute.

"What's he doing?" the girl asked. "Does he want us to follow him instead of the truck?"

"Probably," Bond replied. "But chances are he'll come back around behind us if we keep following the others."

* * *

Mireille frowned, narrowing her eyes at the Volkswagen as it turned away. The man continued to accelerate, pressing on towards the rest of the cars chasing the truck.

The car immediately in front of them was a burgundy Audi.

The man pressed and held down a button on the centre console. A small panel on the centre console bearing a winged logo, which Mireille assumed was for the CD player, slid out from the console and turned slightly in his direction, drawing out with it a long, thin panel that had been concealed in the console.

_Ok, not the CD player, then._

The panel then flipped up to obscure the air conditioning controls, exposing what looked like an LCD screen that was angled towards the driver. At the same time, a green projected head's up display appeared on the windscreen above the leather-clad instrument binnacle, and a small console with several labelled buttons slid out from the lid of the central storage compartment, occupying a space atop the transmission tunnel. The moving panels were all accompanied by the soft whirring of electric motors, barely audible over the loud engine.

"What's going on?" Mireille asked as she looked back and forth between the HUD and the LCD screen. "What is this stuff?"

"This car has some aftermarket equipment installed," the man replied coolly, still looking at the road ahead.

* * *

Jacques Dubois couldn't believe it. This was proving to be a shitty evening, indeed.

They were just supposed to go to the warehouse and pick up the shipment from Morgan. A simple thing, but of course, things just _had_ to go wrong.

First it was that asshole who decided to show up with a dozen other gun-toting assholes to try and take the guns and money.

Then someone shot Morgan out of nowhere, as if they weren't already on edge.

Then RAID showed up out of nowhere, and things _really_ got out of hand.

Morgan decided to take off with the truck full of weapons. Renaud yelled at his people to go after him. He and Louis took one of the Audis, while Martin, Phillip and Alexandre went for the Mercedes-Benz. They left in pursuit of Morgan as soon as they could, trying to avoid being shot all the while. (He couldn't be sure, but he thought Phillip got shot in the arm.) The cars had taken a few bullets as they left.

There were two more cars. One, directly behind the truck, was another Audi that Jacques recognised as one of Morgan's, while the other, a Volkswagen, must be from that interloper's group.

The guys in the Mercedes were shooting at Morgan's Audi when they could, without much success. Their Audi trailed behind the Mercedes, but behind them was the Volkswagen, and the Volkswagen's occupants were shooting at them. Yep, this evening was all sorts of fucked up.

Then there were even more cars coming. Ahead, Morgan's Audi managed to get rid of the Citroen, but then the Volkswagen stopped shooting at them, its occupant shooting at something behind it, and then it turned away at an intersection for some reason. In its place was a new sports car. Rapidly coming up behind them, it worried him for some reason.

He turned in his chair and nervously looked through the cracked rear windscreen at the oncoming sports car, shielding his eyes from the glare of its headlights. Its loud exhaust note was almost angry-sounding.

"I don't like the look of this guy," he said nervously.

"Whatever," Louis, the driver, replied dismissively. "Get rid of him."

"Right." Jacques hefted his MAC-10.

* * *

Bond winced instinctively as the man sticking his head and shoulder out from the Audi S6's window fired a burst at the Vanquish's windscreen. The bullets had little effect; the worst damage they did was to leave a series of scratches.

He took a brief look down at the weapons control console, his left hand briefly hovering over it. Looking up at the Audi, then back down, he pressed the button labelled 'Grenades' before turning his attention back to the road.

The upper third of the Aston Martin's grille flipped up and out, exposing a pair of large-bore muzzles which slid out from their recess behind the grille. A pair of ladder sights appeared on the HUD.

Ahead, the lorry turned onto an entry ramp to a motorway. Every car in the chase turned to follow it. The Audi's machine pistol-toting gunman pulled himself inside as the car turned to enter the ramp.

This would work in his favour, Bond thought. On a motorway, there was far more room to manoeuvre, plus straights long enough for him to make better use of the Vanquish's V12 engine. He would easily catch up to the lorry now, but he had to fight through the rest of the cars following it first.

Still trailing the Audi, Bond entered the motorway, lifting his foot from the throttle. A car horn sounded from a Toyota saloon as Bond overtook it to enter the motorway's entry ramp.

He tapped his earpiece. "This is Sabre," he announced. "I am now headed north on..." Bond looked down at the LCD for a second, which showed a tactical radar display over a GPS map. "On... the Autoroute du Soleil. I am still in pursuit."

"Roger that, Sabre," someone acknowledged. No callsign.

Bond turned off the earpiece's microphone with another tap and downshifted, pulling on the left paddle. Immediately, the needle on the rev counter jumped, and the exhaust note became louder, corresponding to the higher revs. Bond found himself once again pressed back against the seat.

Ahead, the gunman pulled himself out of the Audi to fire on them again. The bullets struck the windscreen and bonnet, leaving scratches.

He had to stop this one. He felt the steering wheel's rim with his right thumb. Just above the right spoke was a small tactile button set into the rim of the wheel, beneath the leather. He pressed it.

Each grenade launcher fired a 40mm HE grenade with a brief, subdued flash and a soft thumping noise that could only just be heard over the sound of the V12 engine. Both grenades impacted against the rear of the car, the explosions twisting metal and shattering the taillight clusters. The Audi immediately began to slow as the rear of the car was disfigured.

Bond shifted the Vanquish to the right to pass the slowing Audi. As soon as they were clear, he pressed the 'Grenades' button again, and the barrels retracted, the grille flipping down to conceal them.

"That was... aftermarket equipment?" the girl asked.

Bond gave her a sideways glance for less than a second. "Yes. Lovely, isn't it?" he asked casually.

The girl didn't reply.

Turning back to the road, Bond upshifted and depressed the throttle. The V12 engine responded with another surge and a snarling growl that became ever louder. Chasing the lorry ahead was a silver Mercedes-Benz E-class saloon, itself right behind another Audi – probably an A6, but Bond couldn't be sure – which was trailing the lorry. Bond glanced in the rearview mirror as a set of headlights glinted.

The girl turned in her seat to look out the rear windscreen. "Wait," she cautioned. "That other car is back!"

Bond flicked his eyes up to his rearview mirror for less than a second. Another car was close behind them, and he saw the muzzle flash from a weapon being fired.

Bullets struck the Vanquish from behind. The girl ducked, almost pressing herself against the transmission tunnel. As if realising the rear windscreen's glass was also bulletproof, she slowly eased herself up to look out at the other car, supporting herself with her left hand on the transmission tunnel.

"What are you going to do about this one?" she asked without turning to look at him.

"You'll see. Just sit back." Bond eased off the throttle slightly and glanced down at the weapons console as the girl slowly drew herself back into her seat, leaving her head and shoulders turned to look through the rear windscreen at the car behind. He pressed the button marked 'Smoke'.

A small section of the rear venturi, between the two exhaust pipes, slid aside to expose a small pipe. The pipe belched smoke for five seconds before retracting, creating a cloud that billowed out from behind the car.

Other cars on the motorway screeched to a halt. The drivers in the cars behind the first to stop hit their horns in surprise as they stamped on their brakes.

The pursuing Volkswagen slowed down, pulling over to the right. Unable to see, the driver kept turning right – and the Volkswagen crashed side-on into a concrete barrier that marked the kerb.

* * *

Mireille watched through the rear windscreen as the Volkswagen sedan emerged from the smoke cloud. It had crashed against the concrete and was rapidly coming to a stop.

Narrowing her eyes, she turned to look questioningly at the man driving the Aston Martin. "And what was that?" she asked in French.

"A loss of visibility," he replied nonchalantly without turning to look at her.

Mireille turned to face forwards again. Ahead, the other Audi and the Mercedes-Benz weaved through slower cars travelling on the motorway. The cars being abruptly overtaken sounded their horns in frustration.

The man accelerated slightly, turning the wheel back and forth to follow the Mercedes between the slower cars. Both of them involuntarily shifted in their seats with the changes in direction.

"By the way, I haven't introduced myself," the man said in English, still looking ahead as he straightened the Aston Martin out, his tone softening slightly. "My name is Bond. James Bond."

In front of them, the Mercedes-Benz shifted left to overtake a BMW sedan.

"I'm... Mireille," Mireille replied hesitantly as Bond swerved left to overtake the BMW. "Mireille... Martin."

"Mi-ri-elle," Bond repeated, gunning the throttle as they passed the BMW. "That a Corsican name?" he asked over the engine's noise.

Mireille's head was snapped back against the headrest yet again with the acceleration. "It's... the Corsican pronunciation of 'Me-ray'."

All the while, he kept his attention on the road, without turning to face her. "I see." He turned the wheel and shifted the car to the right, pulling in behind the Mercedes.

Mireille took another look around the leather-lined cabin. Looking down at her left hand, she realised that except for the time she turned to look behind them at the Volkswagen, she had never let go of the metal grab handle set into the door.

"So... what is this, a company car?" she asked hesitantly, turning back to face Bond.

"Something like that," Bond replied, still without turning to look at her.

_That was odd. _"So... do the British Government always give their agents such nice cars?"

"Sometimes."

_What sort of answer was that? _"Kind of... showy, isn't it? For a spy, I mean."

"Look at it this way: with a car like this, attracting this much attention to myself, could I _possibly_ be working for a government agency?"

"Good point," Mireille conceded.

Ahead, the truck turned off the motorway onto an exit ramp, a loop that led back around to an overpass. The truck's horn blared as it left the motorway, seemingly pushing another car aside. The rest of the convoy followed, first the Audi, then the Mercedes-Benz.

"So... what are you really doing, looking for a Paris crime boss?" Bond asked as he turned the car onto the motorway's exit ramp. A change in the noise the engine was making (it suddenly got louder) implied that Bond had changed down a gear. Mireille tightened her grip on the door's grab handle slightly as the Aston Martin turned off the motorway.

While she tried to think of a response, Bond tapped his earpiece and spoke into his radio. "Sabre. Target has turned off the autoroute. Repeat: target is no longer headed north on the autoroute." He tapped it again and returned his right hand to the steering wheel.

Mireille felt herself being pulled to the left as the car turned right, but since this turn was gentler than the sharper turns Bond had been taking at speed before entering the motorway, this wasn't quite as bad. The exit ramp took them in an arc that ended with them travelling west on the overpass.

"He's... he's up to something," Mireille finally replied, looking over at him. "I wanted to find out what it was."

"So, did you have to shoot him?"

Mireille hesitated. "Yes. He... he killed a friend of mine." _No need to tell him about my chosen profession. _She looked out the passenger window as she considered what to say next. They had entered a residential area.

"Revenge, eh?" Bond took a corner at speed as they turned right at an intersection. Once again, he braked late. Mireille felt herself being pulled to the left with the rapid change in direction as the car turned right. A car honked its horn in protest as they sped past.

Bond continued as soon as he straightened out. "Well, you should know, there's a saying about that: 'when embarking on a journey of revenge, first, dig two graves'."

This felt weird – having this sort of conversation while whipping along through Paris at over a hundred kilometres per hour in pursuit of illegal weapons.

In all fairness, he was right, in a way. Her motivation was a form of vengeance – a desire to not have other people feel helpless and unable to strike back. Without knowing who had killed her family, there would be no vengeance for her against whoever had murdered them, but it would not be so for her clients. It was, she supposed, revenge by proxy.

Looking out the window again, Mireille saw they had entered the Avenue Raymond Aron. "Well, I don't have a grave waiting for me," she replied. She turned to face him, even though he still wasn't looking at her. "And it's not like it bothers me, anyway."

"So, you'll just keep killing, then?"

Mireille hesitated. She wasn't sure how to respond. She just sat there, looking over at him.

Finally, she replied with the truth. "It's the path I chose for myself."

* * *

Bond frowned as he turned his full attention back to the road. He was done talking for now.

The part of Paris they were now entering was built up, with shopfronts, restaurants, and cafes at street level. They were still headed north; Bond knew they were approaching the Paris CBD. Perhaps Morgan wanted to try and lose them in the city. He was about to change up, but seeing the traffic, he thought better of it, his fingers curling back around the steering wheel. Their progress would be slowed considerably.

Ahead, the lorry and the two remaining cars weaved through the traffic, the lorry slamming against other cars as it did so. One of the passengers in the Mercedes E55 AMG saloon partially drew himself out the window and turned around to fire on them when his car wasn't turning between other cars. Like the shooters in the Volkswagen and the Audi before him, the bullets had next to no effect on the Vanquish.

The man eventually stopped firing and pulled himself back into the Merc. As soon as he was inside, the Merc swung left into the next lane and slowed down to come alongside them. The driver then swung his steering wheel right to crash against the Vanquish, the rear two-thirds of the Merc slamming into the front third of the Aston.

Bond winced with the impact as he was thrown to the side, although his body was kept in check by the seat's side bolsters and his seatbelt. The Vanquish drifted right upon being hit, scraping against a row of parked cars along the road.

* * *

Mireille winced, gritting her teeth as the Mercedes-Benz slammed into the Aston Martin. She could see a front-seat passenger in the other car; he seemed to be yelling at the driver while gesturing towards them.

The Mercedes pulled left and came back in, slamming into the Aston Martin again and driving it to the right as they came up to an intersection. Mireille cringed as she saw a parked car, directly in front of them where the road continued, which they were approaching fast. Without a gap to swing the car left to avoid it, they were almost certain to crash...

Bond turned to the right, driving the Aston Martin onto the sidewalk as they continued straight through the intersection.

There was a line of cars parked along the side of the road, preventing Bond from returning to the road. Worse, being Friday night, there were many people frequenting the various cafes and restaurants, which translated into many pedestrians on the sidewalk. Bond pressed the horn buttons with his thumbs, honking at pedestrians to get out of the way as he looked ahead for a gap to swing the car back onto the road.

Patrons of a cafe ran off seconds before the Aston Martin rammed through the outdoors seating area, scattering a small barrier, umbrellas, tables, chairs and outdoor heating units. Cutlery and crockery went flying. Wide-eyed, Mireille stared ahead, blinking as various objects (thankfully, not people) struck the bonnet, her left hand holding the passenger door's metal grab handle in a white-knuckle grip.

On the road to their left, visible through the row of parked cars, the Mercedes remained parallel to them for a few more seconds, as if checking to make sure they stayed where they were, before pulling away in pursuit of the truck.

The Aston Martin barrelled into the outdoors display stand of a florist. Buckets, plastic pots, water and flowers were sent flying with the impact. Water splashed against the windscreen and bonnet, while a bouquet of pale belladonna lilies somehow wound up on the windscreen, caught under one of the wipers. Mireille stared at it in surprise and curiosity.

"I like flowers," Bond said nonchalantly. "Don't you?"

Mireille giggled, ever so slightly relaxing her grip on the grab handle. She couldn't help it.

It was just so... so random. Here they were, chasing down criminals who had made off with a shipment of illegal weapons, following a truck at speed through Paris, with cars from rival criminal groups in pursuit, and leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, and he managed to ask about flowers?

"Hmmm," Bond verbally shrugged. He triggered the windscreen wipers, sending the bouquet flying.

* * *

Finally, there was a gap in the line of parked cars, and Bond managed to return the Vanquish to the road. He accelerated to overtake a Peugeot hatchback, upshifting as he did so, and came in behind the silver Merc.

Bond glanced down at the weapons console and pressed the button labelled 'Missiles'.

A large section of the Vanquish's grille slid down into a recess behind the front bumper. From behind the grille came a rack bearing four short-range guided missiles, sliding forward. Each missile, its tip painted red, bore miniaturised semi-active radar homing and infrared guidance hardware in addition to a high-explosive warhead. On the HUD, green boxes appeared superimposed on every car in view on the driver's side of the windscreen, while a single green crosshair indicated an unguided missile's path and destination.

"Now what's going on?" Mireille asked.

The crosshair was superimposed on the rear of the Merc. Bond didn't bother to designate the car as a target to acquire a lock; he simply pressed the trigger button under the steering wheel's leather.

A missile shot forth from the rack, propelled by an ignited solid booster charge set into the rack behind it. Bond felt the launch as a soft thump coming from the front of the car. Unlike the grenade launchers, this noise was more readily heard.

Spring-loaded fins popped out from the body as the missile left the rack. Ten metres away from the Vanquish, the missile's own solid propellant motor ignited, sending the missile the rest of the way.

The missile detonated on impact, followed almost instantly by a second explosion as the Merc's fuel tank exploded. The two explosions tore the rear half of the car away in a fireball, leaving twisted, burnt metal where there was once the rear end of the cabin and the boot. The front of the car was flung forward, the chassis trailing sparks on the road.

The shockwave briefly rocked the Vanquish, but left them undamaged, save for small pieces of flying metal that nicked the paint and scratched the windscreen.

Bond swung the Vanquish into the next lane to overtake the burning Mercedes.

Ahead, the lorry turned left to enter another road, the remaining saloon, the Audi, turning to follow it. Bond downshifted and turned the wheel, and the Vanquish turned left to follow them.

Bond's radio buzzed as a red Renault Megane pulled in behind them. "Sabre, Falcon Eight. I'm back and I'm on your six."

"Roger, Sabre sees you," Bond replied, taking a quick look in his rearview mirror. He saw the glare of a pair of headlights.

Then Bond became aware of the faint beat of a helicopter's blades coming from above. A spotlight shone down on the lorry.

"All units, this is Bird One," came a new voice over the radio. "We have eyes on the target vehicle. Proceeding north-north-east in pursuit."

"Affirmative, Bird One," Falcon Eight replied. "This is Falcon Eight."

"Roger, Bird One," Bond replied. "This is Sabre. We are currently in pursuit. Confirm you see us."

"Stand by..." Bird One paused as the spotlight shifted, illuminating each car in turn. The light glinted off the Vanquish's bonnet. "Confirm dark blue sedan behind the target truck, followed by silver coupe and red hatchback?"

"Roger," Bond replied. "Sabre is the silver coupe."

"Roger, Bird One," Falcon Eight replied. "Falcon Eight is in the red hatchback."

* * *

Still grimacing in pain from the gunshot, Morgan looked at the driver's external mirror with dismay. That sports car had been picking off the other cars, one by one. Now it was just his Audi left, then this truck.

It all started with that fucker, Bertrand, fucking around with his business. He had a good thing going with Renaud. This deal was supposed to make him millions of euros.

Then someone shot him from behind... one of Bertrand's men?

No. He had looked up at Bertrand after being shot, and he was as surprised as anyone.

No; it wasn't just Bertrand or that shooter responsible for screwing up his evening. RAID came in out of nowhere, storming the warehouse and taking them all by surprise.

He'd had to escape, but he sure as hell wasn't leaving empty-handed, so he'd commandeered the truck full of guns. He could sell it off later to the highest bidder.

Two birds with one stone, but on the road, they were slow. In retrospect, he should have gone for the case of money and made off in a car.

_The police must have been planning that raid for a while,_ he thought. Someone knew. Someone sold him out. He would have to find out whom. In the meantime, they had to escape whoever was driving that sports car.

At least they had managed to put some distance between them while the sports car was tied up with one of Renaud's cars... for now. Whoever he was, his car had to be faster and more manoeuvrable than either the Audi or this truck, so he would catch up quickly.

And now there was a fucking police helicopter. In addition to the pain fron the gunshot, he felt physically uncomfortable having the spotlight on the truck. It was almost... itchy.

_It was ironic,_ he thought. The truck was full of guns, but they couldn't use them. They were inaccessible as long as they were moving. It was fucking stupid.

He turned to Galle. "Pull over! We'll get something out of the back to deal with him!"

Galle swung the truck over to the right as he found a spot to pull over several metres short of a roundabout, mounting the kerb with the right wheels. The truck came to a stop as he slammed on the brakes, and all three of them were thrown forward slightly as the truck stopped.

As the Audi pulled over behind it, Morgan and Jean-Paul exited the cab and jogged over to the back.

Morgan pushed the roller door up and, grimacing, clambered up into the rear compartment. _Which crate was it?_

He found what he was looking for after a few seconds of looking over the crates, opening a few. From one of the opened crates, he produced a Russian RPG launcher, an RPG-7.

"A couple of these'll stop that bastard," he declared as he produced a grenade round from the same crate. He slowly and painfully loaded the RPG-7, sliding the round into the barrel, before handing the weapon to Galle, who was standing outside. "Forget the helicopter – just shoot the car."

* * *

"All units, Bird One. Target has stopped on Avenue Marx Dormoy. They're about... oh, thirty metres short of the roundabout."

Ahead, Bond saw that the lorry and the last of the saloons, the Audi, had pulled over. Frowning to himself, he eased off on the throttle slightly, and the Vanquish began to slow.

_Why would they stop now?_ Unless...

Under the spotlight from the now-circling helicopter, Bond saw three men were standing beside the lorry several hundred feet up the road, and a fourth jumping out of the lorry's cargo compartment, carrying something in both hands. Morgan must have wanted heavier weapons.

Wait... one of them was shouldering a weapon.

"This is Bird One. They're bringing out some heavy weapons. Proceed with caution."

His eyes widened as he realised that the weapon was some sort of rocket launcher.

He stamped on the brakes, feeling his body shift forward with the deceleration, the movement kept in check by the seatbelt. The Vanquish immediately lost speed, the tyres squealing on the road as it continued forward under braking. While the Vanquish's titanium alloy armour was easily capable of resisting small arms fire, he didn't want to put it to the test against a rocket launcher.

He glanced down for a second and jabbed the button on the weapons console labelled 'Shotguns'.

The lattice grilles which covered the bonnet vents slid aside, and a pair of stubby 12-gauge shotguns emerged from the resultant gaps.

The man fired the rocket launcher. The round flew from the barrel, the rocket motor promptly igniting as it flew towards the Vanquish.

"They've opened fire with a rocket launcher!" Bird One shouted in alarm. "We're pulling out of this airspace!"

The spotlight swung up and away from the lorry as the helicopter's pilot veered away.

Behind him, tyres squealed as Falcon Eight's Renault came to a stop. Bond didn't so much as glance at the rearview mirror; his attention was wholly on the road ahead, looking for the rocket round he knew was coming.

Despite the closing speed of several hundred kilometres per hour, the shotguns' upgraded control system was equal to the task. The shotguns twitched and fired one round each, the buckshot flying through the air and ripping into the RPG without detonating it.

Deprived of its warhead and its flight path disrupted, the rocket flew harmlessly past the Vanquish before falling to the road a hundred metres behind its intended target.

* * *

Morgan stared. There was a brief flash coming from the oncoming car, and the RPG seemed to have been hit with something before flying in another direction, away from the car.

Missed.

He turned to his assembled men. "Again!" he barked at them.

Jean-Paul hefted the second RPG-7, levelling it at the sports car.

* * *

More confident, Bond released the brake pedal, returning his right foot to the throttle pedal to gently press it.

A second shoulder-fired weapon was being brought to bear. Its operator fired; he saw the flash.

Again, the bonnet-mounted shotguns turned on their columns to fire on the inbound rocket-propelled grenade, and again, the warhead was torn apart by the flying buckshot. This time, the rocket bounced against the Vanquish's front wing, to no effect. The decapitated rocket slithered along the road.

Bond pressed slightly harder on the throttle, accelerating towards the assembled men, the V12 engine growling. Once again, he was pressed backwards into the seat.

Discarding the rocket launchers, the assembled men drew pistols, although one was armed with an AK-47 from the lorry. They opened fire on the Vanquish – to minimal effect.

Not wanting to use a missile and risk setting off the explosives loaded on the lorry, Bond selected 'Machine guns'.

The lower section of the Aston Martin's grille slid aside again, but this time a pair of barrels poked out into the airflow, flanking the retracted missile rack. A pair of crosshairs appeared on the HUD.

No good. The angle of the car would take him past them without giving him a shot; neither crosshair was aimed at them. Bond depressed the throttle, and the Vanquish sped past them, continuing up the road to enter the roundabout.

After he passed them, he found himself entering the roundabout. Here was his chance to come about.

He spun the Vanquish around, turning the wheel to the left to bring the Vanquish about, circling the roundabout.

Bond felt himself pulled to the right with the turn. Around him, horns sounded as cars in and around the roundabout braked to avoid him.

As the Vanquish came back around to face the parked lorry, he saw that the crosshairs would be aligned with it and the Audi for just a couple of seconds. It would be enough.

Bond pressed the concealed steering wheel trigger button as he left the roundabout. A volley of 7.62mm bullets burst from each barrel and tore into the side of the lorry. One bullet struck the lorry's left rear tyre, deflating it.

The fire shifted ever so slightly to the Audi with a subtle change in the Vanquish's direction as Bond left the roundabout to come back around at an angle to the road he had just left. The bullets splintered the plastic shrouds of the Audi's headlights and putting holes in its bodywork.

The assembled men ceased firing and dived when the first bullets struck the lorry. They scrambled behind their parked vehicles for cover from the barrage.

Bond was still coming down on them at an angle from the roundabout. He brought the Vanquish to a stop as he mounted a traffic island in the middle of the road, just short of the roundabout. The nose of the Vanquish pointed squarely at the parked vehicles, Bond narrowed his eyes at the lorry, which sat about eighty or so feet away.

Seeing the HUD's crosshairs were still pointing at the Audi, he fired one more salvo from the machine guns, then applied the handbrake, turned off the headlights, and stopped the engine. With the engine off, the machine gun barrels and shotguns retracted and the grilles slid back into their default positions.

Overhead, the helicopter was keeping its distance, the pilot unwilling to risk being shot down by an RPG, although the spotlight was still pointed in the general direction of the stopped vehicles below.

Bond silently regarded the lorry, eyes still narrowed, as he pocketed the Vanquish's key. Beside him, Mireille coughed, breathing heavily.

* * *

From the author: As I said in the main body of the chapter, Mireille's immaturity and 'stupidity' is derived from the fact that this is her first solo hit. Younger and less experienced than she is in the series, she is eager to prove herself to the assassin 'community' by successfully carrying out her assigned hit – the first hit she has taken under her own name.

Staying with Bond to observe the exchange would at least ensure she didn't leave 'empty-handed', especially since he offered to let her go without consequence; she could plan her next attempt with what she learns by observing Morgan. However, Bertrand's unforseen intervention caused her to panic, worrying that she would be beaten to the kill, so she acted 'without thinking'.

I've tried to model Bond and Mireille's 'relationship' on Bond's relationships with Tilly Masterton and Melina Havelock, with a bit of Honey Ryder, Pam Bouvier, Wai Lin and Christmas Jones thrown in.

On the pronunciation of 'Mireille': anyone who has seen the English language version of _Noir_ will have noticed the distinctive pronunciation of the name Mireille. According to Project Noir, ADV Films' _Noir_ website, this is a Corsican pronunciation (or at the very least, it's based on one). Corsican, or Corsu, is a Romance language distinct from French, and as such it was assumed that Mireille's name would be pronounced as a Corsican would pronounce it.

Thank you very much to my readers and reviewers for your feedback thus far. Please continue to leave feedback!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

Bond turned to face Mireille. _"You stay here,"_ he told her sharply.

Her eyes wide – perhaps she was still in a state of numb shock from the car chase – Mireille nodded.

Turning away, Bond opened his door. Behind and off to their left, traffic had resumed around the roundabout, including traffic leaving the roundabout to join the right side of the road they were on, although traffic coming _into_ the roundabout from the road the lorry had parked along came to a stop.

Bond glanced back up the road as he disembarked. Falcon Eight's red Megane had come further along the road after the rocket attack to stop several feet up, swinging sideways to block the road. Behind it, several cars came to an abrupt stop, their drivers beeping their horns angrily. Their headlights glowed in the evening darkness, glinting off and around the Renault's bodywork from behind.

In the distance, the Renault's left door opened, and the DCRI agent driving it disembarked, drawing a pistol. The sight of the pistol-bearing man seemed to have been enough to silence some of the impatient motorists behind the Renault; the sound of horns faded slightly.

The radio hissed. "Falcon Eight here. I'm coming up the road on foot."

Bond pressed his earpiece's button as he straightened himself. "Roger that. Sabre is proceeding on foot, about… twenty-five metres up from the lorry. I'll stay in touch. Sabre out." He pressed the button again and drew his P99 from his shoulder holster.

Turning to look inside the Vanquish, he saw Mireille still sitting there, looking up at him coolly, her eyes no longer widened in shock, mouth slightly open.

* * *

Mireille finally released her death grip on the door's metal grab handle. Her heart slowed slightly. _This is bullshit,_ she thought to herself, watching Bond leave for the truck after he closed the door. She bit her lip again.

She had to do _something. _This wasn't just about Morgan, about an assignment, anymore – it was about stopping a group of criminals supplying weapons to terrorists. The sense of guilt was almost overwhelming.

This was her mess – she had to help clean it up. And there was only one way to do it right now.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

* * *

Bond turned at the sound of the door opening. He saw the girl, Mireille, leave the car.

She was reaching into her jacket for her P5 as she straightened herself. She obviously intended to finish what she started in the warehouse.

_Not now!_

He turned on his heel to face Mireille. Lowering his arms, he aimed his P99 at her from his hip. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You'll need help," Mireille replied.

He had to end this quickly. "This is just about your revenge, isn't it? You know I can't let you kill Morgan."

She hesitated for a second as she drew her weapon. She appeared to be thinking of a response. "Umm..."

"You know, you shouldn't even _be_ here. Stay in the car. I don't have time for this."

"This... it's not just revenge anymore. This is my fault, this whole thing. Let me help. Please." Her expression seemed sincere enough.

Bond sighed. Again, he was wasting time. He had to keep moving.

"Alright," he conceded. "You can come. Fire _in self-defence only."_ He raised his right arm and pointed his P99 at her for emphasis.

* * *

Mireille nodded. She just realised, once again, how lucky she was. By all rights, he should have shoved her back in the car and handcuffed her to the steering wheel. Just why this man was so tolerant, she had no idea. Not that she was complaining.

She hefted her P5, holding out in front of her, her left hand supporting her right. To her right, Bond moved ahead of her, likewise holding his pistol at the ready in both hands.

Mireille slowed as she approached the stationary truck. Ahead, Bond gestured with his left hand for her to move to the left. She dashed towards the cab, turning and pressing her right shoulder against the cab's grille. Her heart pounded in her chest with a combination of fear and anticipation; she could feel it against her ribcage.

Looking back at Bond, she saw him cautiously approach, his pistol held out in front of him. Her back pressed against the cab's grille, Mireille turned her head to her right, to try and look around the corner. Nothing yet.

Mireille turned to her left to look over at Bond, who had arrived and was standing by the truck's left headlight, leaning against the cab. He took a step forward, then hesitated.

She heard a soft sound. She turned back to her right.

One of Morgan's men had come around the side of the truck and was raising an assault rifle to fire on her. It seemed as if she had plenty of time to watch him raise the rifle to a firing position.

She was wide open. In that second, Mireille knew it was over. She had plenty of time to watch, and no time to respond. She would not be able to bring her P5 around to bear in time to fire back.

So much for trying to correct her mistake.

Her first job, a spectacular failure. She wouldn't get away, and Morgan would. It seemed like she would need that grave after all.

There would be no closure, no justice, no retribution for her family. She would never find out who had killed them... but at least now she was going to meet them.

* * *

Two gunshots sounded, and the man collapsed.

Mireille turned. She saw Bond standing there, his pistol pointed at the man as he crumpled to the ground. She just stared, her mouth slightly open.

"Keep an eye out, next time," he said, before turning to his right and continuing along the left side of the truck.

In her state of stunned shock, all she could do was nod. She turned, coming around the right corner of the truck's cab.

* * *

Bond took another cautious step and pressed himself against the side of the lorry's cab, having heard voices at the back of the lorry. He knew there were at least three of them left.

One of them came around the back of the lorry, bearing an AK-47.

Bond turned and retreated back around the corner of the lorry's cab, his back against the front of the cab.

"Wait! Over there!" someone at the back of the lorry yelled in French.

He fell to a crouch by the left headlight as gunfire sounded. At least two different weapons were being fired. He narrowed his eyes as he realised he wasn't being shot.

Bond cautiously looked around the corner. Looking up, he saw that several metres up the street, Falcon Eight fell to the ground. The gunfire stopped as the man fell to the street.

Bond tapped his earpiece. "Sabre," he hissed. "Falcon Eight is down!"

* * *

Mireille had started moving along the right side of the truck. She held her P5 out in front of her in both hands. She took quick, shallow breaths, her heart pounding as she shuffled forward.

"Wait! Over there!" someone shouted.

Several guns started firing. Upon hearing the gunfire, she froze, rooted to the spot. It sounded like two guns, maybe three.

Then the gunfire stopped.

* * *

Bond rose from his crouch and continued to creep towards the back of the lorry. He stopped about two feet away from the back, near the rear left wheel.

"Check around the side," he heard someone shout in French. "They're probably still there."

"Got it," came a reply.

Bond took a step back and raised his P99.

A man came around the corner, bearing a pistol. Bond fired twice.

* * *

Creeping forward, Mireille finally stopped just by the back of the truck, alongside the open rear roller door. There were four – no, three of them left. Risking a peek, she saw a man fall on his back, his head barely visible from her angle. Bond just shot one of them.

She saw Morgan. He and Galle were hunched over by the Audi. The third man fired a burst at the other side of the truck from an AK-47 – only to be shot by Bond.

Here was an opportunity to correct her mistake.

Morgan turned – perhaps he was going to retreat – and saw her. His eyes widened in surprise. He shifted his shoulders to raise a submachine gun.

She raised her arms, bracing her right hand with her left. She lined up her P5's sights with Morgan and fired.

Once.

The P5 fired with a crack.

Twice.

Another crack.

Morgan dropped his weapon, two rounds in his chest. He fell to his knees, then on his face on the road. Beside him, Galle turned and dropped his AK-47 in shock.

Mireille coolly smiled to herself, a brief rush of satisfied exultation filling her. It was done.

Seeing another target, she shifted her weapon to aim at Galle. Before she could pull her trigger, he had turned from looking down at his fallen leader, drawn a pistol, raised his arm, and fired at her.

By design or accident, Galle's shot had the effect of knocking the P5 from her hands, wrenching it away to her right. The weapon bounced against the left wall of the truck's cargo compartment as she involuntarily released it.

A gunshot sounded less than a second after Galle fired. Galle screamed.

Gasping in shock and pain, Mireille turned her head to her right as she grasped her right hand with her left, her right fingers slightly curled. She heard the P5 clatter away as it fell to the floor in the truck's open rear compartment.

Weaponless and with an injured hand, Mireille turned from the general direction of her fallen weapon back to her attacker. Galle was grabbing at his left arm in pain; under the light from the street lamp, she saw dark fluid oozing from under his fingers as he backed away.

Knowing she was exposed, Mireille retreated back along the truck's right side. As she did so, she felt around her right hand with her left, squeezing the fingers, the palm. Wincing, she grunted with the pressure, and her fingers hurt with the shock of having her weapon wrenched from her hands, but there was no slickness or moisture. No blood. No punctured skin. No splinters of bone.

Still backing away, she flexed and extended her fingers, making a fist. It hurt to move them, but everything moved as it should.

_Good. Now, to get out of here…_

* * *

Pressing on the gunshot wound on his left bicep with his right hand, Galle winced as he retreated, passing the Audi. In the distance, he heard the sirens of approaching police cars. Staying to fight was pointless; he'd dropped his pistol when he was shot, and all the rifles and machine guns in the truck were useless to him now.

Galle stopped by a Volkswagen hatchback, parked on the street behind the Audi. Reaching into his pocket with his left hand, he winced as he drew a hand grenade and pulled the pin.

* * *

Bond finally arrived at the back of the lorry. His advance had been slow, and had been halted by some of Morgan's men coming around the back to shoot; he had had to stop his advance and take a step back to shoot that first man who had come around the corner, and then he had only taken one step forwards before a second man appeared.

He was dimly aware of cars squealing and screeching behind him, at the roundabout. The drivers were probably stopping to look or take cover or get away after hearing gunfire.

Off to one side, he heard a faint grunt, a female voice. Then some soft footsteps coming from the other side, heading back towards the front. It sounded like the girl was retreating.

In the distance, he heard sirens that were growing louder. Briefly looking up the street, he saw the flashing lights of a strobe rack in the distance.

A few metres away, one of Morgan's men, the one he had just shot, had retreated further back, using the parked Audi as cover. Under the street lamp, he saw the man scampering away behind a Volkswagen parked on the street, behind the Audi. He was clutching at his arm.

He turned the corner, sweeping his weapon around the space between the Audi and the lorry.

Someone on the ground groaned. Bond looked down, aiming his weapon at him. One of Morgan's men, lying on his back with two gunshot wounds, one in his right shoulder and another in the gut. His Glock was lying nearby, and he was feebly reaching for it with his right hand. Bond kicked the pistol away; it slid under the Audi.

Bond looked into the lorry's opened rear compartment. Several crates had been opened, their lids lying on the floor.

He turned around and saw the man he had shot standing two cars away, behind the car parked behind the Audi. The man moved his right arm back and threw an object before turning and running.

Bond's eyes widened when he saw the grenade flying through the air.

"Grenade!" he yelled. He started running down the street away from the lorry, after the man who had thrown the grenade.

The grenade fell inside the lorry, clattering against the floor of the cargo compartment, and exploded. It was followed almost instantly by a number of larger explosions; the ammunition and explosives loaded on the lorry were being detonated almost simultaneously.

Bond was thrown forward by the combined shockwaves. The shock robbed him of his balance and footing, and he was shoved off his feet, airborne for a second before he tumbled to the pavement, slide-rolling along the road away from the lorry. Then his head struck something, and the nearby lights faded, the world turning black as he lost consciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

Deprived of her weapon, Mireille could do nothing more but run from the scene.

Running away from the truck, she took cover by the Aston Martin, running to the back of the car and hiding behind it. To an observer, it may look cowardly, but it would keep her alive. It was something Claude had taught her: rushing in with guns blazing was a good way to become dead. Being cautious and conservative, even if it made her look and feel like a coward, would keep her alive.

Ignoring the pain in her right hand, she peeked up over the car's low roof, still gasping for breath. She watched as Bond arrived at the back of the truck, his pistol held out in front of him. Galle and the other men were nowhere to be seen. Nor was there any other gunfire to be heard. Bond looked up; he seemed to be looking down the street.

Wait... Galle was a few metres down the road, hiding behind a car. He threw something, turned, and ran off down the street.

She then heard Bond shout something, a second before he started running in the same direction as Galle. "Grenade!"

Mireille ducked behind the car, crouching to brace herself for the coming explosion. She raised her hands to cover her ears.

The first explosion took place in the back of the truck. It was followed by a series of closely-timed explosions from the ammunition and explosives loaded on the truck, the explosions sending out shockwaves that shattered windows and rocked nearby cars as the truck was torn open.

The shockwaves from the explosions gently rocked the Aston Martin. Small pieces of metal struck the Aston Martin, leaving scratches of their own or cracking the headlight covers and windscreen, but the car otherwise remained intact.

* * *

When the Aston Martin stopped rocking, Mireille looked up over the roof once again, a hand resting on the car's bootlid.

Unsurprisingly, the truck had been heavily damaged. The rear box compartment's sides and roof were bent outward, with what looked like thin slits where the metal was torn; most of the energy from the explosions had left through the open rear door. In contrast, the cab was somewhat intact, save for the broken glass and plastic of its windscreen and lights. Shattered metal and glass littered the street. Surprisingly, there wasn't much by way of fire, just twisted metal where the back of the truck once was.

Morgan's Audi, having been right behind the truck, took the brunt of the blasts, all its glass and headlight shrouds broken, some of its metal body panels deformed by the shockwaves and either dented or torn by shrapnel. From what she could see, the car parked behind the Audi had suffered a cracked windscreen, and was almost certainly further damaged. A nearby building was damaged: windows broken, paint chipped and scratched with debris.

The evening was filled with the sounds of at least a dozen car alarms, set off by the shock of the explosions. The nearby cars' flaring and fading lights provided a source of intermittent illumination for the horrific tableau. She barely registered the screeching cars at the roundabout behind her, or the car horns sounding as drivers suddenly braked or tried to pull away.

Even with the alarms, she could still hear sharp, loud bangs coming from the truck in rapid succession – gunfire? No; the ammunition from the guns was being burnt and going off in the residual, fading heat from the explosions.

The approaching police cars, whose sirens grew ever louder, came in from behind her, approaching from at least two roads intersecting at the roundabout. They ground to a halt, the officers inside disembarking. More and more police cars approached behind them, and behind them, an ambulance, which must have been following them, came to a stop, clogging up the roundabout.

Drawing herself upright, Mireille slowly walked around from behind the Aston Martin. She hesitantly walked towards the wreckage, staring wide-eyed at the destruction. She winced with the sound of gunfire, but it was becoming less frequent.

Looking over at other cars parked on the traffic island, she saw a few of them, the ones closest to the truck, had suffered broken windscreens and headlight covers. Some of these also bore some other form of shrapnel damage: dents, scratches, gouges, cracks. The trees on the traffic island closest to the explosion were likewise nicked by flying shrapnel.

Some bodies had been thrown away from the truck in the explosion. To her right, she saw Morgan lying unmoving on his back, his right shoulder impaled by a piece of the box compartment from the truck. The front of his shirt was stained with blood. Another body could be seen further up, near the Audi.

All Mireille could do was stare. In spite of her training, her time spent under the tutelage of a competent assassin, she suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of vulnerability, of defencelessness.

She was alone. Alone, and afraid. She was in a situation she had not anticipated and could not control, with no-one to help or guide her. Dumbstruck, she couldn't recall if any of Claude's training scenarios had anything like this. Maybe they did, and she just couldn't remember...

She looked back and forth between the two bodies. _Was __there __anyone __else? __Wait, __there __was..._

One of Morgan's men – Galle – was still out there. Was he alive? She looked further down the street. There was no sign of Galle. Or, for that matter, Bond.

Mireille simply couldn't handle this on her own. She needed somebody – _anybody_ – familiar. _Right __now._

Too stunned to speak before, she shouted over the car alarms in Corsican-accented English. "Mister Bond!"

No reply.

She hesitated, trying to recall Bond's first name. _What __was __it? __It __started __with __a __J. __John, __Jim... __James? __That __was __it._

"James!"

No reply.

Mireille continued walking along the traffic island, passing the parked cars. As she walked, she passed the wreck of the truck, passed Morgan's body, passed the damaged Audi. After a few more metres, she stopped and turned around, watching as the policemen cordoned off the area, using their cars to block off the entrance to the roundabout. A few officers quickly walked around the site, looking for survivors or bodies. At least two were waving at bystanders, urging them to stand back. Two other officers were already at work directing traffic away from the site, pointing motorists to the roundabout's other exits.

She turned around and started in the same direction she had been walking in previously – the same direction she last saw Bond running in, back up the road. She kept her eyes downcast, looking at the road. She wanted – _needed_ – a familiar face, and right here and now, even though they hardly knew each other and had met under less than ideal circumstances, James Bond was that face. With all the police officers milling about, she was far from alone, but she still felt vulnerable and lonely. She just _had_ to find him.

For some odd reason, she found herself recalling the old saying: _an __eye __for an __eye __means __the __world __will __go __blind._ Was this where her path of vengeance would lead her?

Suddenly realising she wasn't holding her weapon, Mireille reached for the shoulder holster in her jacket, at her left, below her breast. She sighed as she felt the empty holster, remembering that the P5 was gone. It had probably been blown up in the explosion. She would need a new gun.

She came up to a third body, a dark-clad one, clothing torn, limbs askew, lying a few metres away from the wrecked Audi. She stopped and looked over at the unconscious form, regarding the body for a second.

"James," she breathed. The man's face was just out of view; she took a hesitant step towards the body, then another. A part of her was afraid of what she would see when the man's face would come into her view, but nonetheless, she forced herself to walk over to the body to look at the man's face.

It wasn't Bond.

Her relief was short-lived; she knew he was here somewhere, and given how close he must have been when the truck exploded...

_If he's not here, then he's just somewhere else around here._

Mireille turned away from the body and kept walking up the street, away from the explosion, her eyes still downcast. She looked up from the road, watching as an approaching fire truck came in from the east on the right side of the road, its strobe rack on. Had there been more traffic coming down the road, the fire truck risked a head-on collision, but thanks to the lack of traffic entering the road from the roundabout, it was relatively unhindered, with only a few cars entering through a side road. The truck slowed as it approached.

Her left foot came up against a hard object on the pavement as she started to take a step. Looking down, she could just make out from the light from a street lamp a short distance away that it was a pistol. Probably from the shipment Morgan had been bringing in.

Wait... there was something familiar about this one.

She looked around before she bent over to examine it more closely, drawing a small LED flashlight from a pocket and turning it on. Under its harsh white light, she saw it was actually Bond's distinctive, angular pistol.

Mireille shifted the flashlight to her left hand and bent over. She reached out to pick up the pistol with her right hand, but stopped short as her fingers were about to brush against the weapon. She shook her head. What was she going to do, take it home?

That was stupid. It didn't seem right to just take it. She wasn't a scavenger. Also, it was probably government property or something; she didn't want to be implicated in the theft of such a thing.

She straightened herself, turning to face the twisted wreckage once again. The fire truck had stopped on the other side of the road, near the Aston Martin, and the firefighters were already at work spraying down the site of the explosion. Some of the police were still looking over the bodies that had been blown clear of the explosion; others started photographing and collecting evidence a short distance away from the site. Turning away and looking up the street, she saw still more emergency vehicles; another ambulance and another fire truck were approaching from the east.

"James…" she said to herself, her voice trailing off.

She knew how close Bond had been to the explosion. He could only be dead.

She was alone; Bond was most likely dead, and Galle, if he wasn't dead too, was long gone. There was no point in staying. Staying would mean she would only get in the way of the police and firefighters; she'd had enough of being in the way tonight. It was all too much. She had to leave.

Taking one last look at the truck, Mireille turned away for the last time and continued walking away, shaking her head to herself.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

Mireille finally made it back to her apartment in downtown Paris. Leaving the site of the gunfight and explosion behind, she had found her way onto another main road, eventually hailing a taxi to take her home.

On the way home, Mireille had realised that she would have to go and get another taxi or something to take her back to her Polo, which was still at the industrial estate near the warehouse.

That could wait. Right now, it didn't matter.

Turning the lights on, she walked past the boxes of items in the short 'hallway' – she had recently moved in and hadn't had a chance to unpack everything yet – and entered the apartment's main living area.

Right now, the unpacked items didn't matter.

She fell into a chair at her small dining table, shaking her head to herself as she looked out the window at nearby rooftops. Several of them filled her immediate view, and beyond these rooftops was the distinctive belltower of St Germain des Prés, a nearby church. All of them were rendered as silhouettes, dimly lit by street lamps from below.

The view, she found, was slightly blurry.

She sniffed as a single tear slid down her left cheek. "Fuck it," she swore in Corsu, shaking her head. "Fuck! Fuck!"

Her tears were the result of pent-up frustration and anger. A clenched fist pounded against the table.

It was stupid. Her first hit was a success, but not in the way she had anticipated. A trail of destruction had been carved through southern Paris, probably costing millions of euros. Dozens of innocent people were injured or dead.

Worse, Galle had gotten away. He had nearly killed her, and he had killed Bond.

She cast a teary eye around the apartment. She had selected the Paris apartment and purchased it in her own name about two months ago, moving in almost immediately; as heir to the Bouquet family fortune, she was actually quite wealthy, despite seizures of assets by French police and looting by Bouquet syndicate underlings and rival syndicate members upon her parents' deaths. She could have afforded a far larger place to call home, or she could have stayed at the same house she had lived in with Claude, a substantial two-storey house in suburban Paris, but she didn't _want_ a large property; she wanted something cosy, preferably close to the city, with amenities and transport close at hand, and this apartment had offered all of these.

Besides, an apartment in the middle of Paris could have been considered a more subtle show of wealth than a large property, were she so disposed; while far from being Spartan or frugal, she was not inclined to cloak herself with accoutrements befitting someone who was a 'stereotypical' multimillionaire. She made sure to keep up with current fashion trends, though, and made it a point to buy brand-name or designer products.

Not that it mattered now.

Mireille rose from the table and walked over to the 'bedroom' – in reality, a slightly raised area with low walls, giving a modicum of privacy – and pulled off her jacket, flinging it aside to the floor. She sighed as she sat on the bed, her shoulders sagging. After removing her shoes, she finally allowed herself to fall backwards onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling.

She didn't stop cursing. "Shit," she hissed in Corsu. "Damn it!"

Mireille half-heartedly pounded a fist down on the mattress beside her and turned on her left side, facing the wall. She sniffed again, feeling tears welling in her eyes again as she pulled her knees up slightly. She had been fighting a losing battle to keep the tears at bay for the hour or so it had taken for her to get back home.

She was crying out of frustration and anger and regret, she knew – but there was also a hint of something else. She felt... sorrow. Sadness.

For James?

_Why?_ She had known James Bond for less than two hours, and she had first met him at the end of his gun. He was intent on stopping her; it was a fluke that she hadn't been arrested or otherwise subdued.

It certainly wasn't a crush, although she conceded he was quite attractive. So, not exactly love at first sight on her part.

Mireille knew it was because she was responsible for his death. Had she not interfered, James Bond would be alive. She just _had_ to go and try to kill Morgan, leading to the gunfight in the warehouse, the car chase, and the gunfight in the street. If not for that last gunfight, Galle wouldn't have been able to throw that grenade and set off the explosives.

Even though she didn't kill him herself, her actions had led to his death. The successful completion of her first solo assignment seemed to count for nothing in the face of this knowledge. If only she hadn't gone and tried to kill Morgan right then and there, hadn't let her pride and impatience get in the way...

If only she had tried to do it earlier... she wouldn't be in this mess.

If only Bertrand hadn't shown up... She could have gotten another shot at Morgan later, if Bertrand hadn't interfered. Even if Bertrand had killed Morgan then and there, there would be other assignments. This wasn't worth it.

And now a good man – he wasn't a bad guy, he was just doing his job when she interfered – was dead because of her.

She wondered if he had had a girlfriend or a wife back in England. Could she face that woman, tell her that because of her stupidity, she was responsible for his death? No.

Even worse... did he have children? Was he a father? Could she tell those children that they didn't have a father because of her? No.

She knew that there were consequences for the families of those she killed in the course of her profession, but this was different; while she was prepared to kill those she had deemed 'guilty', she couldn't be responsible for the death of someone who was essentially innocent, a third party.

And now, she was. And right then and there, nothing else mattered.

* * *

No; Mireille knew there was more to it than guilt. Maybe it was because he had accommodated her in spite of her brash arrogance. In a way, he had taken her in – not that she saw him as a father figure or older brother. Was it some weird psychological phenomenon, where she developed an affinity for or attachment to someone under stress?

She looked at her right hand, which still hurt, just a little. She decided it was because he had saved her life. That gunfight on the street – she should have died at least twice, and it was only because of _him_ that she wasn't dead. First, that man by the truck. Second, Galle could have killed her when he shot her P5 out of her hand; it was only because Bond had intervened that he hadn't got a second shot off.

Maybe – no, _definitely_ – she unconsciously felt she owed him for that. However, it was a debt she would never be able to repay.

She shook her head and shut her eyes. He had saved her life... and now, he was dead.

Mireille sniffed again.

* * *

From the author: Sorry it took so long to upload chapter 7 (over a year!) – a combination of writer's block and a busy schedule had prevented me from uploading it earlier, but I was finally satisfied with what I had, so I uploaded it when I could. I didn't put an author's note at the end of chapter 7 because I felt having one would 'clash' with the atmosphere of the chapter, especially considering this chapter was to follow.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

Under the fluorescent lights set into the ceiling, Bond sat on the bed in an observation room near the emergency department of a Paris hospital. He was clad in a black long-sleeved shirt; his jumper, jacket and shoulder holster had been set aside. An adhesive bandage had been applied to a cut on his right cheek, and another on a graze on his left thumb.

Having replaced the gauze pad underneath, a male doctor standing by the bed refastened a clip on a bandage that had been wound around his head.

The doctor stepped back and looked down at Bond. "That's all for now," he told him in accented English. "Everything looks good so far. Call if you need anything else." He pointed at a phone hanging on the wall nearby.

Bond nodded briefly. "Thank you."

"Good night."

Bond gave another brief nod, this time with a faint smile. "Good night."

The doctor gave a brief nod of his own to Bond before stepping out of the observation room, closing the door behind him. Bond turned his head to follow the man as he left.

Bond looked up at the clock hanging on the wall to his left – four-forty-eight in the morning. Apparently, he had been in and out of consciousness for almost nine hours. He vaguely remembered bring awakened in the back of an ambulance, on the way to a hospital, and again in the emergency room. The third time, it had been here in this observation room as the doctor had come in to check on him.

He heard voices outside the door – a male voice with an English accent, followed by the doctor speaking. He recognised the English-accented voice and turned slightly on the bed, waiting for the door to open.

He didn't wait long. The door's handle clicked as it swung open.

A tall, handsome, dark-skinned man walked into the room. Wearing a grey suit, he wore his black hair close-cropped in a crew cut. Seeing Bond, he turned and walked over to him.

"James," Charles Robinson said, nodding and giving a faint smile as he extended a hand.

"Charles," Bond replied in greeting, reaching up to grip and shake the deputy Chief of Staff's hand.

"I came as soon as I could," Robinson said, releasing Bond's hand after a couple of seconds. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache," Bond replied. "I'll manage."

Robinson pulled a chair over and sat down. "I'm told it's a mild concussion, plus some minor cuts and bruises. Good thing you were already running away from that lorry when the explosives went off. Lucky thing the explosives didn't all go off at once, too."

Robinson paused for a second. "They tell me you'll be kept here in the hospital for observation, but otherwise you'll be ok. You should be discharged tomorrow night, Monday morning at the latest."

"Good." Bond nodded. "Any other casualties from the explosion?"

"French police found four bodies at the site. Morgan and three of his men. A DCRI agent was shot in the abdomen and is undergoing surgery right now."

_Falcon Eight._ Bond nodded wordlessly, absorbing the new information.

Robinson leaned forward slightly. "Do you know what happened?"

Bond furrowed his brow as he took a few seconds to collect his thoughts. "We stopped the lorry. Morgan's men put up a fight, but we managed to stop them. Someone must have got a shot off or thrown a grenade or set off a bomb when I had my back turned."

Neither man spoke for a few seconds. "Well," Robinson eventually said, "M sends her congratulations on stopping that shipment, and wishes you a speedy recovery."

"Yes, of course," Bond said. "Well, that's one less shipment of weapons and explosives that won't make it into the hands of terrorists."

Robinson nodded. "The whole point of this operation, wasn't it?" He gave a brief smile.

"Not exactly done the way it was intended," Bond pointed out, with a faint trace of a sardonic grin.

"True," Robinson agreed. "But done, nonetheless."

Both men knew that Bond was supposed to merely observe the exchange before Morgan and Renaud would part ways, and if possible, plant GPS tracking beacons on the crates. Beacons or not, the DCRI and SIS would then continue to observe both parties before moving in at the weapons' final destination in southern France. The RAID units' intervention was meant to be a backup option in case things went awry, as the possibility of a third party such as Bertrand had not been discounted.

After a few seconds, Robinson continued. "The police have Renaud and several of his men in custody, as well as three of Morgan's from the warehouse. Six of Morgan's men were hospitalised with gunshot wounds. They'll be under guard as soon as they come out of the ER, if they haven't already.

"No fatalities from the chase, it seems. Motorists in other cars have sustained some cuts and bruises. A DCRI agent who crashed was a bit shaken up, but unhurt."

"Who was the third party?" Bond asked. "From the warehouse?"

"The French were able to ID him pretty quickly. Michel Bertrand, a local crime boss and head of a rival syndicate. Apparently he wasn't too happy with Morgan getting this job. Felt he was muscling in on his territory." Robinson paused for a second. "He was shot in the gunfight in the warehouse, along with several of his men. He's in surgery right now; police and doctors are unsure whether he'll live or not.

"Four of his men are under arrest, and the others are under police guard while at hospital for gunshot wounds. The ones you stopped on the motorway put up a fight when the police caught up with them; one was killed, the other surrendered."

"Right." Bond nodded. It was over.

No; not quite. There was still something else...

Then it hit him. The girl, Mireille Martin. She was still out there; he had lost her after the explosion. "And what about the girl?" Bond asked.

"What girl?" Robinson asked.

Bond hesitated. Were there any records of Mireille from that evening? A bit of audio, perhaps? Did Charles have a chance to go over the recordings? Anything linking her to tonight's events? Would they pursue her?

"There was a civilian, a blonde girl, caught in the crossfire, after we stopped the lorry."

Robinson frowned for a second, as if trying to remember something. "I'm not sure," he replied. "No civilians were injured in the explosion, if that's what you're thinking. People ran from the scene as soon as the guns started firing, so there was hardly any risk of people getting caught in the explosion, if that's what you mean."

Bond nodded, looking away at a wall. "Good."

She was safe, then, for now. He wondered what would become of her quest for revenge – he knew what a desire for revenge was like, having sought revenge himself more than once. It could, he knew, become an obsession, one that left a trail of violence and death in one's wake. Hopefully, now that Morgan was dead and her friend presumably avenged, Mireille's desire for revenge and violence would be sated, and her life would return to normal – a life that didn't involve running around trying to kill people.

Of course, he didn't want to have to involve a civilian at all in the first place, but she had left him little choice. He had been in a hurry, first to get into position to observe the exchange between Morgan and Renaud, then to reacquire the package after the gunfight in the warehouse, and then to subdue Morgan and his men after the lorry had been stopped. Every time, Mireille had butted in, trying to get involved, and he simply didn't want to waste time arguing or subduing her. He had figured that as long as she stayed back and kept her mouth shut, she wouldn't present too much of a problem.

If he would be honest with himself, though, on some level, he respected her determination – some might say stubbornness, or rashness, or impatience – to see her task through, in spite of her inexperience and the large, dangerous obstacles she had faced. It was something he was familiar with, having seen it on several occasions in several different people on his various missions, but almost never in someone so young.

Maybe they would meet again, maybe not. You never knew.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

Six days later, Mireille once again wore black – black jacket, black button-up blouse, black mid-length skirt, black shoes. This time, however, the purpose of her attire was not concealment.

She stood in front of a tombstone in a cemetery in Paris, a bouquet of belladonna lilies hanging at her side in her right hand. Overhead, the sun was setting, giving an orange tinge to the sky.

* * *

The events of that Friday night had led her to cast doubts on whether or not this was the right path, but eventually she decided that she would continue on as an assassin, a sort of avenger. Her early choice, she decided, was the right one – to only take on jobs involving those who had wronged or cheated others. Those who had preyed on the innocent and evaded justice.

This path, she hoped, while giving her clients a chance to strike back and therefore not know the same helplessness as her, would eventually lead her to whoever had killed her family, and when she found them...

Bond didn't know it, but he was right; although she was acting on behalf of her clients, themselves probably bent on revenge, the prospect of revenge for herself was a key motivator in her line of work.

Her quest for answers, she hoped, would eventually provide her with an opportunity to avenge her family's deaths, but she had never considered the possibility that her desire for vengeance could affect innocent others in such a fashion, which it clearly had. She had to be more careful – she was determined that no other innocent people would be hurt or killed as a result of her vendetta. That was what happened when you lost control. She had to stay in control, and to do that, she decided that she needed to be more cool and calm.

She had already resolved that Christian Galle would be made to pay for killing James Bond, but she would not pursue him, at least for now. His time would come; in the meantime, she would have to try and stay cool, and not let such an obsession cloud her judgement.

* * *

The news had made no mention of a British man who had been injured or killed that night, just Morgan and his men, plus a French police officer who had been shot (but survived), and another who had been in a car crash. Of course they wouldn't mention Bond; he was a spy. Spies weren't meant to make it onto the news.

Still, she knew what she had seen, and she doubted Bond was alive. And she would live the rest of her life knowing it was her fault. Therefore, it was only right that she pay respects in some way to the man who had died as a result of her carelessness.

Although she knew where some of the cemeteries in Paris were, she had not had occasion to visit one for as long as she had been in Paris; this would be her first time.

She didn't know why she picked this particular grave in this particular cemetery, but she didn't want to leave flowers at the site of the explosion, even though it was being restored and would be back to normal soon. She didn't want to go back there, not yet. As for this grave... selected from amongst all the other graves in the cemetery, it was a new grave, and thus seemed appropriate. The man buried here was born in 1961.

* * *

Remembering Claude's suggestion to get her own weapon, she decided not to obtain another P5 to replace the one she had lost – instead, in her purse, which was slung over her left shoulder, was a recently acquired Walther P99.

She had made the connection between Bond and the P99 soon after seeing it while looking for a replacement gun, and in spite of her lingering sense of guilt (or perhaps, she thought, _because_ of it), choosing the P99 just seemed... right, a sentiment that seemed to be confirmed as she hefted the weapon for the first time.

She could not allow herself to forget what had happened – she knew that time would numb the effect of the memory of that night, but she would not allow herself to forget altogether. _As if I could,_ she had thought to herself.

The weapon reminded her of her failure to keep someone innocent from death. The decision was made; it would be hers, and it would serve as her own private homage, a reminder, but a practical one for her line of work.

* * *

Trying to find appropriate flowers, she had eventually settled on a bouquet of pale, off-white belladonna lilies. She wasn't entirely sure why she picked them at the time, but something about them reminded her of him upon seeing them in the store. It wasn't until she had purchased them and was well on her way down the street that she remembered that a bouquet of them had somehow landed on the Aston Martin's windscreen while they were chasing the truck.

She had wondered if it was disrespectful of her to use belladonna lilies – Bond had been making a joke about them when the bouquet had caught itself on his Aston Martin's windscreen. She had stopped on the sidewalk and looked back at the florist, tempted to return the bouquet, but she had decided to carry on. It didn't seem right; she had them in hand, and that was what she would use. The important thing, she supposed, was that they reminded her of him.

As she continued on and made her way to the cemetery, she had wondered if he would have been offended by her choice, or if he was the sort who would consider it ironic humour. Even now, standing here in front of the grave she had selected, she had a lingering sense of guilt over the flowers.

Those thoughts were banished as Mireille cast her eyes down on the tombstone. What mattered now was that he was gone and she was responsible; paying her respects to the man who had saved her life was the right thing to do.

"Ummm... James..."

She hesitated, sniffing as a tear wound its way down her cheek. She had rehearsed what she would say in her head at least a dozen times, and now, she found herself hesitating, as if lost for words.

"This isn't your grave, I know," she finally said hesitantly, in accented English. "I just wanted to say... thank you, for saving my life. And... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, James."

She bent her knees, carefully laying the bouquet down on the tombstone, before straightening herself, nodding at the tombstone, and turning to walk away.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

* * *

Two years later

* * *

Clad in a red sleeveless top, black miniskirt, and leather boots, Mireille Bouquet stood on the sidewalk, silently regarding an abandoned four-storey apartment block in Paris. Under the blue-black sky, the evening air was still; there was hardly a breeze.

She was no longer the hesitant, nervous yet headstrong teenage girl who had accompanied the mysterious British agent that night two years ago: a little older, she was more confident, more knowledgeable, and more than a little better at hiding her emotions – on the surface, she was cool, calm, collected. (To an extent, she was the same on the inside – she viewed a situation with cool detachment, with a minimum of emotional involvement.) Even back then, she had been mature for her age, if a little impulsive, and now, she had matured just that little bit more, and had shed much of her impulsiveness. It was this maturity that had given her the reputation she had in the assassins' underground community, despite her age; cool, professional, proficient. She was also discreet, and therefore trustworthy.

She studied the building. Surrounded by a stained, cracked wall, the building had been left to decay. Several windows were boarded up, but yellow-white light was visible, coming from a few unbroken windows on the second and third floors. She could just make out the silhouette of a man moving in one of the windows.

Visible through the closed gate were two cars. One of them was a dark grey-blue sedan, the other a white BMW sedan, like the one that had been described to her by Kirika. Like the one Galle had used to get away during their recent encounter in the park.

Acting on information from Paulette, she had made her way here to track down Galle, who had returned to Paris after doing prison time somewhere in South America. Galle had been gathering men since his return to France – possibly the remains of Morgan's old crime syndicate – to try and kill her.

Galle had already tried to kill them recently, but they managed to fight off his men, and Galle himself had only just managed to get away with his life. However, she knew he would return to menace them again, and unfortunately she was right, as evidenced by today's events – an innocent man was dead because of him. Gunned down in the street, in broad daylight.

Mireille had been angry with herself for allowing him to get away that night, during that attack. They _had_ him, and he got away. Well, here was a chance to correct that mistake, as well as a mistake made two years ago when Galle had run away from the gunfight that night in Paris. This was for her, and for Kirika, and for James...

She was under no illusions; she knew, of course, that killing Galle wouldn't bring Bond back. This was about making Galle pay for what he had done, and making sure no other innocent people fell victim to Galle ever again.

She turned to her left, to look over at Kirika Yuumura. Standing beside her, the younger girl was looking over at the building coolly. Kirika was often hard to read (who knew just what she was thinking?), but this time, Mireille could guess with some confidence what was on her mind. After all, she knew what it was like to lose someone you cared about, and what it was like to be responsible for the death of a third party.

That man by the Seine, the painter... she had had some sort of connection with him, otherwise, Kirika wouldn't have lingered. As a result, Kirika was probably feeling pain, sorrow, regret. A sense of loss. Guilt. And, perhaps, a desire for revenge.

Mireille had wanted to spare her the knowledge of having the death of someone innocent on her conscience. That was why she had discouraged her from seeing him. But now... it was too late.

As if sensing that she was looking at her, Kirika turned her head to face her.

"I'm going to go around the back, and work my way upstairs," Mireille announced. "You take the front. Go through the ground level before coming up. Whoever gets Galle first... gets him first."

Kirika nodded. "Right."

* * *

Three days later

* * *

"Lovely day, isn't it?" Mireille asked.

Kirika nodded. "Uh-huh," she replied softly.

They were walking along a street in central London, heading north to find a cafe for lunch. Mireille had decided several weeks ago to spend a week in the U.K. in between jobs. Given recent events, she also hoped it would get their minds off that unpleasant business with Galle.

* * *

Mireille had visited the grave in Paris the day after Galle had been killed, laying a fresh bouquet of belladonna lilies. Yes, it was someone else's grave – she had always known that – but she had to pay her respects anyway.

Galle was dead; James Bond had been avenged. Yet Mireille drew little solace from that fact; in spite of her coolness and her attempts at emotional detachment, the whole incident had opened old wounds, reminding her of her failure.

* * *

The sun was out, and there were hardly any clouds. There was a very gentle breeze whistling down the street. It was nice weather.

As they walked, Mireille turned to view the contents of a shopfront window. Inside were several designer handbags.

She came to a complete stop in front of the window to look more closely at the handbags. She recognised one of them, a black one that was just the right size; she had been seriously considering buying one, and had been putting off the decision for a while, now.

She looked again at the price tag. It wasn't a bad price, actually...

"Did you want to go inside?" Kirika asked as Mireille eyed the entrance to the shop.

"Hmmm..." Mireille took a few seconds to consider what to do. They weren't here on a job, so there was no sense of urgency, but there was still quite a bit to see and do; Kirika had never been to London, at least, as far as she could remember, and it had been a long time since she had gone, herself. Their main priority was taking in the sights.

"Maybe not. I think we'll keep going for now."

* * *

As they walked on, Mireille turned her head to the right, looking at the displays in the windows of various shopfronts. That was why she didn't see the silver birch Aston Martin DB5 stop at the traffic lights next to them, and so they continued on down the sidewalk, neither of them paying the car any attention.

* * *

Inside his Aston Martin DB5, James Bond sat in silence, his blue-grey eyes flicking briefly to the people on the sidewalk.

Turning back to the road, he saw that the traffic lights had turned green, and he engaged first gear and continued down the road.

* * *

From the author: What I've hopefully shown in my take on Mireille Bouquet is that she was not always an amoral, emotionally detached assassin – she has a conscience, she feels fear and guilt, and people get under her skin. This incident, her first solo job, provides another possible reason why she buries these under a 'mask' of cool, controlled calm by the beginning of _Noir. _This story also serves to give my take on the previous conflict between Mireille and Christian Galle that was alluded to in episode thirteen.

Thank you to everyone who I have consulted for ideas or opinions, and to my readers for staying with the story and for leaving your feedback!


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